


The Seal of Cagliostro

by Weasley_Detectives



Category: Adventures of Tintin (2011), Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Attempted Murder, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Classic adventure, Demisexual Tintin, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Kidnapping, Mentions of War, Multi, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Older Tintin, Other, Slow Burn, Tintin & Haddock friendship, angst & feels, movieverse, slow mystery unravelling, teaming up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28444263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weasley_Detectives/pseuds/Weasley_Detectives
Summary: A spate of mysterious high profile robberies by the gentleman thief "Kaitou Red" have captured the public's imagination. Tintin is hot on his trail, but when jewel of the opera, Mademoiselle Castafiore, is kidnapped, the infamous reporter fears he has stumbled upon a far deadlier plot.
Relationships: Archibald Haddock & Tintin, Tintin/Original Character(s)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know I have a million other stories I should be getting on with, but this plot and the characters won't leave me alone. I just love Tintin and Haddock's friendship so much! Please keep in mind that this fic follows on from the 2011 film/universe, but various elements from the comics will play an important role. Thank you so much for giving this fic a chance (writing it has been keeping me sane through lockdown)! x

**oOo**

"Isn't it about time you got yourself a nice girl, lad?"

Tintin sighed. It wasn't the first time the Captain had raised his least favourite subject and it was, he feared, unlikely to be the last. Furthermore, he knew his old friend meant well, but Haddock really did pick his moments.

"Captain, I don't think now is really the best time-"

Haddock snorted. "Ach, away with yeh! Yer just trying to change the subject again."

"Yes," Tintin curtly agreed. "That's exactly what I'm trying to do, considering my primary objective at this moment in time is keeping us both alive."

“Piffle! You always have an excuse.”

“As far as excuses go I think bullets are a fine one,” Tintin snapped, leading their hasty retreat down a winding alleyway. 

Sniper fire zipped over their heads. The city was on the brink of erupting into civil war, thanks to the machinations of a corrupt political party funded by drug smugglers. After uncovering damning evidence of the party's dealings with the international crime lord Rastapopoulos, Tintin had been on his way to the embassy with Haddock and Snowy in tow, when they had come under fire.

A flash of movement reflected in the side mirror of a bullet-ridden old motorbike caught his attention. He grabbed both Haddock and Snowy by their scruffs and dragged them behind a half collapsed wall seconds before another hail of bullets shot up their path. The Captain sank gratefully against the wall, dabbing at his sweaty red face with a grimy handkerchief, and tried to to fill his lungs with greedy gulps of air.

"Nothin' but excuses and theatrics!” Haddock continued, trying to sound nonchalant through the sweat and the heat, and the gunfire peppering the city all around them. “All I'm saying is that when you spend all yer time gallivanting about the globe with an irritating wee dog, people talk."

"Really?" Tintin loaded his revolver and took aim through a small crack in the wall. “Well I can assure you my relationship with Snowy is strictly platonic.”

Snowy gave Haddock a disapproving grunt as his master fired. A shocked cry from further down the alley confirmed his shot had met its mark.

"Very funny." Haddock removed his fingers from his ears. “I'm not blind, Tintin. The Countess du Preen was like a dog with a bone hanging off yer every word at breakfast. Ahh what a bonnie wee pearl." Haddock stroked his beard with a wistful look, lamenting his lost youth, before turning a rueful look on Tintin. "Now you can't tell me there weren't sparks flying between the pair of you."

"Do you mean the one who's shooting at us right now?" Tintin asked, ducking further behind the wall as the gunfire recommenced. "Well I suppose that's one way to put it."

"Semantics!" Haddock countered as he handed Tintin another fully loaded magazine. "Got to love a girl with a bit of fire in her belly."

"That's all well and good," said Tintin, reloading his gun and taking careful aim through the dip in the wall. "But preferably not when that fire is aimed at us."

"Trust me lad, _I_ know about these things." Haddock jabbed a thumb towards his own chest. "Keep waiting for the perfect woman and she'll waltz right by you."

With a short roll of his eyes, Tintin took aim and replied, "So long as she doesn't take my head off as she passes, that's fine by me."

**oOo**

The problem was once the Captain got an idea stuck in his head, he was worse than Snowy faced with an interesting dead thing - nothing would deter him from picking at it. Tintin wasn't quite sure where or why Haddock had picked up the notion that he should indulge in some kind of romantic dalliance, but his old friend's timing was starting to verge on the ridiculous.

"Have you ever been into Mrs Spigg's tea room?” His companion asked one day as they fled down a beach in Bali, ducking and swerving to avoid a hail of flaming coconuts raining down upon their heads. “You know the one, it's that wee eggshell painted place off the market square. Got a face like a bloodhound, but her daughter, och! What a beaut." Haddock hummed appreciatively. "Fair as the high sea and buttocks as high as noon tide! Unattached too, so I hear."

“What, her buttocks?” Tintin raised his eyebrows. “How unusual. Where on earth does she usually keep them?”

Haddock glared. “Yeh ken what I mean, yah cheeky wee devil.”

Tintin sighed. “Unfortunately so.”

They threw themselves over the edge of a particularly steep sand dune as another barrage of flaming coconuts pounded the hot sand around them. Snowy whined at their feet before burrowing his snout into the dune, his little tail wagging nervously under the hot sun.

"Where would you rather be, eh?" Haddock continued as he tried to pat out the little pockets of flames springing to life all over his turtle-neck. "Back home in Mrs Spigg's tea room having a drink with her lovely daughter, or on this sweltering confounded beach in Bali playing nutty war games with the locals?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?" Tintin grinned cheekily as he picked up a coconut and tossed it in one hand. "I think we both know the answer."

The only response he got was a gruff and grumbled " _Hrmph!_ "

**oOo**

Occasionally the Captain wondered if Tintin's interest simply wasn't turned towards the fairer sex. That was fine by him, of course; Haddock had seen far stranger things at sea. But in all their adventures together, his intrepid young companion had never shown the slightest bit of attraction towards anyone, male or female. He was beginning to suspect Tintin had simply been born old. And this would have been fine too, if not for one irritating thing.

"Thunderin' typhoons, it's like dying of thirst beside a drowning man," he groaned.

"Pardon?" Tintin enquired, looking bemused at Haddock as they meandered around the edges of the busy ballroom.

"And worse!" he bellowed. "You're oblivious to the attentions! It's like going to dinner with a ruddy vegetarian!"

"Captain, be quiet," Tintin hissed. "You're drawing attention."

"Pins and liver, if only!"

They passed a group of pretty young débutantes, who bent their heads together and whispered excitedly as they passed, bright eyes lingering on the famous young journalist. Haddock scowled. He had reluctantly agreed to attend the débutantes ball at the bequest of Mademoiselle Castafiore, who characteristically refused to accept his protestations. Thus far, he had spent a miserable evening ducking out of the opera singer's sight and baring witness to Tintin's increasingly less charming obliviousness.

"I feel like your decrepit old Grandaddy,” Haddock grumbled into his beard. “I have been rendered invisible. Obsolete. Inaquaduct!"

"Inadequate," Tintin corrected, taking a sip of his champagne, clearly unmoved by his friend's emotional theatrics. "And you're being dramatic."

"I might as well be chopped liver." Haddock stuck a thumb towards himself and puffed out his chest. "But I'll have you know in my day I made many a lass quiver at the knee."

"Oh? Were they sailing with you at the time?" Tintin quipped.

"Don't get clever."

Tintin idly rolled the stem of his glass between his thumb and forefinger, his mind wandering. “What do you think of this business about the thief who broke into the Uffizi Gallery last week?”

“You're trying to change the subject.”

“To something more interesting, yes,” Tintin conceded.

Haddock waved him off. “Blundering bilge rats, what's so interesting about another jumped up wee thief? It's all anyone's been harping on about tonight.”

“Mmh, he certainly has captured the imagination of the public,” Tintin agreed. “The papers are thoroughly enjoying the spectacle. They've even dubbed him 'Kaitou Red'.”

“Kaitou Red?!” Haddock threw his shaggy head back with a loud guffaw. “What a load of codswallop! Give a man a gimmick and he'll think he rules the world. I'm telling you right now, you wouldn't catch that glory hog pulling one over me!”

“Champagne, Sir?”

Haddock's face immediately brightened at the proffered drinks balancing on the waiter's tray.

“Och, well, don't mind if I do!” he said, snatching the entire tray from the waiter's hands. “Now, where was I? Ah yes - no cock-sure, sneak thief, lolly-goggling, landlubber could ever pull the eyes over Captain Archibald Haddock's wool!”

“Captain... Weren't you carrying a silver pocket watch this evening?”  
  
“Of course I am, Tintin. I always carry me Grandaddy's pocket watch,” Haddock declared, patting his breast pocket. “Keep it on me at all tim.... BLISTERIN' BARNACLES!”  
  
“The waiter, Captain, quickly! After him!”

“ _THIEF! LAND PIRATE! I'LL RING YER SCRAWNY NECK!_ "

**oOo**

_Tick... tick... tick..._

Haddock's eye twitched in beat to the dull, relentless ticking from the grandfather clock in Marlinspike's hall. He was convinced the blasted old clock had obtained a supernatural ability to slow time – or perhaps Calculus had been fiddling around again. He wouldn't put it past the old goat to invent a time machine out of his furnishings.

Irritation thrummed in Haddock's old sea-bones. He clenched the morning paper and growled in fury as the clock finally struck the hour.

"That confounded contraption!" He folded his paper and thrust it aside. "Thunderin' typhoons! How is a man supposed to hear his own thoughts on this blasted deck?!"

"Well, you could stop yelling for one," Tintin replied drolly, without taking his eyes off his own copy of the local rag. The white fox terrier curled at his feet seemed to snort his agreement.

Captain Haddock glared at them both, but his expression cooled when he took in the fresh bandages crowning Tintin's head and the dark circle around the lad's right eye. He felt his anger melt away to reveal the real source of his irritation that morning.

“How's yer head doing?” he asked in a slightly less gruff voice.

Tintin took a sip of his tea, but his bright eyes never left his paper. “Still attached, thanks.”

Haddock snorted. “Hmph, that's as may be, but it's sure no' screwed on right.”

Tintin finally put down his paper and gave his friend a concerned look. “Captain, is there something on your mind? You're not still sore about your pocket watch are you? I retrieved it from the thief, after all.”

“Aye, but not before the bloodsucking blaggard gave you that shiner and escaped into the night,” Haddock grumbled.

“Don't worry. I have a feeling that wasn't the last time we'll see our nimble little friend,” Tintin said, wryly.

Haddock didn't quite see how that was good news. "If you were a cat you'd be on yer ninth life."

"Good thing I'm more of a dog person then, isn't it? Eh, Snowy?" Tintin gave the fox terrier at his feet a scratch behind the ear. The dog gave a huff of agreement.

"Ach, yeh ken whit I mean!"

Tintin hid his smile behind his paper. The Captain always got more Scottish when he was irritable.

Haddock gave another low grunt in D minor, before pretending to busy himself with his paper again. It was a British broad paper, with large black headlines forewarning imminent conflict between Borduria and Syldavia. His grip tore the paper in two. Tintin drew him a speculating look, but Haddock pretended not to notice and shuffled the single pages into a neat stack on his lap, as if he'd meant to do that all along.

Archibald Haddock had never wanted children. How could a man who had never grown up himself be expected to raise a bairn, anyway? The sort of wisdom he had to offer was not fit for children (though it came in very handy during a game of blackjack).

At the start of his odd friendship with the famous "boy reporter", Tintin had often complained about Haddock's less than savoury methods and spoiled pearls of wisdom. Haddock, for his part, had retorted that Tintin had been born old and needed to loosen up a bit. For all his reckless adventuring, the lad could be a real fuddy duddy.

But he had understood from the very beginning that Tintin was a truly amazing young man; self-effacing, honest, brave and compassionate, with a sense of moral duty that Haddock had never owned. Together they had travelled to the farthest reaches of the globe, witnessed marvellous things, and cheated death more times than he cared to count. But every now and again something would betray Tintin's youth; a naïve comment, perhaps, or the way he would grow so childishly excited over a potential developing story. At twenty-two, the “boy reporter” was a young man now, but Haddock had grown to understand that Tintin was still just another orphaned lad cheated out of a childhood.

A grizzly old sea Captain with a penchant for whisky might be a poor excuse for a father figure, but if that's what Tintin needed, then Haddock would be damned if he didn't rise to the challenge. And if parenthood meant nudging Tintin off the path of destruction and towards the safety of home, then so be it.

The big wide world had never been safe, particularly not for the likes of the curious and idealistic, two categories Tintin happily occupied. But with tensions rising between Borduria and Syldavia once again, the stakes seemed higher than ever. Even the most civilised European cities and haunts of the upper classes were set on edge. A heaviness permeated every town and city they visited these days. The very air thrummed with an electrical anticipation, as if every brick and soul was poised for war to spill onto their doorstep.

Distracting Tintin with a nice young lady who would keep him out of trouble for a while seemed like an easy solution, for what better way to lure a red-blooded boy from the frontline than by a pair of pretty dark eyes (this, Haddock thought ruefully, he knew from experience)?

"It's not that I haven't thought about it," Tintin said suddenly, breaking his reverie.

Baffled, Haddock blinked at him stupidly.

"Eh? What are you on about now?"

"Relationships." When Haddock continued to stare blankly, Tintin shot him an impatient look and added bluntly, "That is what you're worrying about, I expect?"

"Ahh."

Haddock felt foolish and a little ashamed at his lack of more substantive response, but he was taken aback (and truth be told a little touched) that Tintin knew him well enough to understand what had been bothering him. Instinct told him now was the time to keep his big hairy trap shut and let the lad continue.

"The truth is I'm perfectly content with my life the way it is," Tintin went on, though his gaze had turned inward. "The world holds too many wondrous things to explore, and too many people without a voice whose stories must be heard. My life is my work, Captain, and it is often dangerous work. I've made enemies. That isn't the kind of life I would want to impose on another person. Does that make sense?"

Haddock's smile turned warm and broad as he looked over the boy he knew as his son in all ways that mattered. "Aye laddie. That it does."

Of course it did. Tintin prized his freedom as much as he did. It's why they remained such kindred spirits, despite their many differences. In a way, Haddock was relieved he didn't have to share the lad with anyone else just yet. But the worry still lingered.

"As for companionship, I have all I need at Marlinspike Hall.” Tintin gave him an earnest smile, the kind lit with genuine warmth and honesty. “I suppose I've come to think of you and the professor as something like family."

Haddock gave another muffled grunt, though secretly touched by the compliment.

"Aye, well, don't expect me to be carryin' yeh down the aisle any time soon."

Tintin returned to his paper. "That's a pity. You'd look marvellous in a dress."

Before Haddock could let loose a stream of colourful invectives that would make the Bird brothers blush, Tintin raised a hand to shush him.

"Hold that rant, Captain - look at this!" Tintin turned the front page of the newspaper towards him. Halfway down in urgent bold lettering were the words:

**KAITOU RED STRIKES ANTWERP - FEARS BRUSSELS TO BE STRUCK NEXT!**

"Thunderin typhoons," Haddock groaned and slumped into his armchair with a roll of his eyes. "I've had one too many encounters with that sauced-up cheap sideshow this week." 

Ignoring his old friend, Tintin read on. "'The infamous thief, who goes by the moniker _Kaitou Red_ , has issued Interpol a card declaring his intentions to kidnap the Jade Cross - a medieval relic currently held at the Hotel Metropole under the ownership of one Nicholai von Hertz. _Kaitou Red_ earned international fame last year after successfully procuring the Pharaoh's Tooth from Japanese oil magnate and oyabun of the Yakuza faction of Kyushu island, Jiro Takamura.'" His bright eyes shot up from the paper, glittering with excitement. "He's going to strike Brussels."

“He struck Brussels already!” Haddock protested. “He struck my breast pocket and pinched my grandaddy's pocket watch!”

A slow smile spread like butter across the young reporter's face. “Ah, I believe that was merely his means of getting our attention.”

"Oh no. I know that look." Haddock crossed his arms obstinately. "Whatever you have planned I want no part of it, yeh hear?"

"Captain, this is our chance to take on one of the greatest thieves of the 20th century. It's the story of a lifetime!"  
  
Haddock grunted. "You said that five lifetimes ago and all of them came back bruised."

But he knew his pleas would fall on deaf ears. The game was already afoot.

**oOo**


	2. Chapter 2

**oOo**

Tintin departed Marlinspike Hall that morning with an extra skip in his step. He pulled a long feather from his inner coat pocket and rolled the hollow stem of it between his fingers, admiring the way the colour ran from a deep, dark crimson up the main shaft before flaring out into thin barbs of chilli red. He felt it again, the tantalising tug of an invisible thread pulling him inexorably towards adventure, a feeling he had long since learned was impossibly to resist. The Captain, however, was not always so easily convinced. Tintin smiled to himself and pocketed the feather. His old friend would come around eventually, he simply needed some time to warm up to the idea.  
  
In the meantime, what he needed was a hook. Perhaps he'd pay Thompson and Thomson a visit in the afternoon, see what Interpol thought of this so-called _Kaitou Red_.  
  
Tintin had not been surprised by their encounter with the eponymous thief the previous evening. He had chased the waiter who had pinched the Captain's watch far from the débutante's ball. He had almost caught up to him on a bridge when the blighter caught hold of a lamppost quite unexpectedly, swung about, and used the leverage to catch him off guard with a winding kick.

The fight had not lasted long, but at least Tintin had managed to land one or two blows before being knocked clean out. When he had come to, he found the worried faces of the Captain and Snowy peering down at him. The pocket watch was in his hand and a long red feather lay mockingly across his chest.

Tintin privately admitted that he was partly to blame for the incident. After all, he had poked the hornets' nest somewhat. He had neglected to disclose to the Captain anything of the hidden messages he had secreted away in his last two articles in _Le Vingtième Siècle_ – a bold coded challenge issued to Europe's infamous thief in the hopes of drawing him out. In hindsight, it had been a reckless idea and he doubted the Captain or his editor would be very pleased to learn of his activities, either.  
  
“But the important thing is that the thief responded to my article, which tells us a few things, Snowy.” His canine companion gave him a quizzical look. Tintin continued, “The thief may work abroad, but if he read my article in the paper, it suggests he lives locally. That certainly narrows it down to...” He sighed. “Well, the whole of Belgium, I suppose.”  
  
Snow gave a retaliatory yip.  
  
“Yes, alright, alright, but at least it's a start,” he retorted. “Another thing: I hid those messages in my articles well, which means he's clever, too. Clever, but egotistical. We could use that to our advantage, Snowy. Pride tends to come before a fall, after all.”  
  
As for his physical description, that was going to be a little trickier to uncover. _Le Kaitou_ had disguised himself well as a waiter at the débutante's ball. The kind of people who attended such events would never think to look twice at the man serving their drinks. Even Tintin was loathed to admit he could not recall a clear picture of the man. Clearly the thief was a master of disguise, much like his old foe, Roberto Rastapopoulos. Tintin sincerely doubted the criminal mastermind was the man behind the mask of _le Kaitou_ , however. For one thing, the thief he had encountered last night had been too quick on his feet. For another, Rastapopoulos would never lower himself to disguising as the help.  
  
“Not to mention his smart right hook.” Tintin rubbed his jaw. “And his left hook, too,” he muttered. “But there was little finesse to his style. He's been trained, no doubt about that, Snowy, but you can never really take the street fighting style out of the fighter. Too many bad habits picked up early. My guess is he's a contract thief - likely small fry compared to who he's working for. But if that's the case, why make such a song and dance about it? What kind of thief announces their crimes to the world? It's almost like he's goading his victims. But why?”  
  
Snowy cocked his head with a puzzled whine. Tintin bent down to pat him.  
  
“We'll head to the library. The newspaper archives might give us a better picture of this Kaitou Red's crimes to date. Perhaps there's a pattern to them. Come on, Snowy.”

However, an afternoon of hunting carefully through the archives proved largely fruitless. Tintin had gone over every crime committed by the thief with a fine tooth comb and found no new leads. There were twelve major robberies in total, roughly one every month over the course of the year, starting with a vault in Tunisia belonging to Omar Ben Salaad.

One curious aspect of the robberies was the odd list of items stolen. A recent robbery had taken place in Florence's Ufizi Gallery. The item targeted was not a priceless first century Roman sculpture, but the marble plinth it stood on. The Duchess of Guernsey had reported the theft of her grand piano, and last May a wealthy American owner of a vineyard outside Carcassonne had claimed the thief had run off with three taxidermy polar bears. Then of course there was his habit of forewarning the authorities of his criminal activities with a calling card, and the single red feather he left behind at the scene.

Snowy whined at his master's feet. Tintin frowned and turned to look at the at the dull light coming through the tall windows. He checked his watch. “Sorry, boy. Time got away from me again. I'll tidy up and we can get going.”

“I can do that for you, Mr Tintin,” a small voice stuttered from behind him.

The reporter turned to see a slight young woman with overlarge glasses and an ill-fitting jersey standing beside a trolley full of books. Recognising her as one of the library assistants, he smiled politely.

“No need, it's quite all right.” He began to neatly sort the pile of papers he had been sifting through. “It's a mess of my own making, after all.”

“Please allow me to help you, at least,” she said shyly, tucking a stray hair from her messy bun behind her ear.

“Thank you, that would be much appreciated, Ms...?”

“Spitz,” the woman stammered. “Kitty Spitz.”

She seemed to have an aversion to looking directly at him when she spoke. Tintin couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

“Lovely to meet you, Ms Spitz.”

The woman paused as her fingers brushed the headlines of one paper. “Pardon me, but are you investigating le Kaitou?”

Tintin nodded. “I am, or trying to anyway,” he said with an empty laugh. “In fact I had my own encounter with him just last night.”

The woman's eyes lit up behind her lenses. “You did?”

“Yes.” Tintin motioned to his black eye. “And he was kind enough to gift me with this.”

“How awful!” Kitty gasped. “And to think, I have been cheering him on all this time. Are you sure it was him?”

“Ah. There's the rub.” Tintin grinned and reached into his inner jacket pocket, procuring a long feather. It shone a brilliant red under the lamplight. “I'm afraid he knocked me clean out, but when I came to this little fellow was lying there. Until I can verify its authenticity against another of its kind at the sight of a crime, it is quite useless as evidence I'm afraid. But a nice souvenir nonetheless. One that will last a little longer than a swollen eye.”

“I have read about your adventures in the papers, Mr Tintin,” Kitty admitted softly. “They're very thrilling.”

Tintin laughed lightly. “I'm sure I make it seem a lot more so than it is in reality.”

“The stories are made up?” Kitty asked, a little disappointed.

“Not at all, but I tend to leave out the less exciting parts.” He cast his arm wide to the remaining papers on the desk. “Case in point. I doubt anyone would wish to read my adventures sitting all day in a library.”

Snowy gave a disgruntled _whuff_ of agreement.

“I would happily read anything you wrote, Mr Tintin,” Kitty said honestly. Then her cheeks turned pink and she froze in horror. “Er, t-that seems to be everything. Good evening.”

Tintin watched perplexed as the library assistant scrambled to gather up the remaining newspapers and threw them onto the trolley in an unruly heap.

“Um, yes. Good evening, Ms Spitz.” Tintin blinked a owlishly at the librarian's retreating back as she disappeared between the dark bookshelves. He looked at Snowy and shrugged. “Did I say something to offend her?”

The fox terrier just rolled his eyes and trotted off towards the exit.

**oOo**

He called on Thompson and Thomson on his way home to report his encounter with the thief the previous night, half hoping the detectives might have some news for him. The inspectors had been called away to London on business, however, and so Tintin returned home, making it to his door just before the rain lashed down in torrents. Snowy, who wasn't quite so fast, shook the droplets of rain from his wiry coat after nosing his way inside.

“Good evening, Mr Tintin,” Mrs Finch greeted Tintin as he closed the door behind him. “A message for you arrived.”

“Oh?”

“An invitation from Mr Gilligan Ratbagh,” she said and handed him the telegram. “Shall I send some stew up for you? I've just made a big pot.”

“Thank you, Mrs Finch, that would be lovely,” he said gratefully. He waited for the landlady to return inside her little apartment before reading the contents of the telegram. Snowy cocked his head watchfully as Tintin unfolded the paper. “It's an invitation to a party at Basil Park in Oxfordshire tomorrow evening. I haven't a clue why Mr Ratbagh should want my company at such short notice.”

Gilligan Ratbagh was a wealthy entrepreneur whom Tintin had helped out of a spot of bother in more than once. It struck him as odd that Gilligan had acquired the financial means to purchase a property of such splendour as Basil Park. He pondered over the invitation, tapping his foot restlessly. Time in England would risk missing his chance to catch Kaitou Red in action. On the other hand, such grand parties were always goldmines of information. But before he could mull it over any further, the doorbell rang.

He opened the door to find Kitty Spitz shivering on the pavement outside.

“Ms. Spitz, is everything all right?” he exclaimed, standing aside to let her through the doorway. “Please, come inside.”

“N-No no, that's okay, Mr Tintin,” she said, sheltering under a well soaked newspaper that was doing little in the way of keeping the rain off. “Sorry for dropping by unannounced, but a thought occurred to me after you left. I have an interest in ornithology, you see, and...” She trailed off, looking flustered.

“Ornithology?” Tintin repeated, confused. Then it clicked. “Oh, you mean the feather?”

Kitty nodded, relieved. “Precisely! I-I was wondering, if it's not too impertinent a request, if I could take a look at it perhaps. When you showed it to me earlier I knew it didn't belong to any native bird. In fact, I didn't recognise the species at all. So I started thinking and, while the answer might be strange, I believe I might be able to identify its origin with a second look.” She cast her eyes downwards at her rain soaked feet. “I thought that might be of some help to you...”

Tintin grinned. “That would be magnificent! Thank you very much, Ms Spitz.”

Her face flushed pink. “Kitty,” she murmured, pushing up the enormous glasses that had been slipping down her nose. “If you please.”

“Kitty it is,” Tintin replied kindly. “Are you sure you won't come in? My landlady always prepares far too much dinner for one stomach to manage, if you should like to join me.”

Kitty looked ready to faint at the invitation. “No! I mean, yes! I-I mean that would be lovely but,” she sighed, nerves getting the best of her. “Just the feather, I think, for tonight.”

Tintin handed the feather over gratefully and promised to call on Kitty at the library once he returned from England.

Well that settles it, Tintin thought as he returned to his lodgings for the night. He would attend the party at Basil Park tomorrow evening, while Kitty carried on his investigation here. Then he would return and take a room at the Hotel Metropole in the hopes of catching the thief in action. He could only hope _le Kaitou_ had not booked tomorrow evening to make his appearance at the grand Brussels hotel.

“The real challenge will be getting the Captain to accompany us,” Tintin told Snowy, who gave a huff of agreement.


	3. Chapter 3

**oOo**

They touched down on the grounds of Basil Park the following day just as the sun was beginning to dip beneath the hills. As the light aircraft began its descent, Tintin pointed out the brilliant chalk outline of the prehistoric Uffington White Horse cut into the rolling green hillside. Haddock responded with a barrage of furious expletives and ordered him to keep his eyes on the sky, before burying his face in Snowy's wiry coat, clutching the dog tight to his chest. Whenever the subject of flying was raised, he would loudly proclaim, “If man were meant to fly we'd have sprouted wings out our buttocks!” to which Tintin would calmly point out, “By that logic, if humankind were meant to sail we'd all have webbed feet.” Haddock usually didn't speak to him for an hour after that.

The expansive grounds of Basil Park certainly rivalled those of Marlinspike Hall, but the Palladian structure of the main building was even more breathtaking, though Tintin wisely kept that thought to himself. He guessed there had to be at least one thousand windows to the place. The building's many eyes and silver-white stonework glittered in the pink light of the sunset. Two enormous stone birds flanked the main steps leading up to the portico. He didn't recognise the species of bird the statues represented, but their cruel beaks sent a chill down his spine.

“Come along, he says,” Haddock muttered with his hands on his hips, repeating Tintin's earlier words back to him as they both stared at the grim creatures. “Just a modest wee gathering, he says. Bah! An entire evening spent in the company of more dead-eyed sociocrates.”

“At least it should be comfortable,” Tintin offered pleasantly, unwilling to entertain the Captain's usual grumblings as they headed up the steps, Snowy trotting happily behind them. “And with any luck we'll find a familiar face or two.”

“Aye, well. Think I'd rather take my chances with your thief again.”

They were welcomed by the butler of the estate and ushered into their lodgings on an upper floor where they dressed for the evening, before being directed to the grand orangery outside. Tintin much preferred this building. A fraction of the size of the main structure, the glasshouse architecture of the orangery recalled the exquisite Renaissance gardens of Italy and was normally dedicated to housing exotic plants and citrus trees. This evening, however, Basil Park's orangery was playing host to some of Europe's elite.

Once more, Tintin wondered how Gilligan Ratbagh, a man who mostly traded in dodgy items and even dodgier deals, had come into the possession of Basil Park and all that went with it.

“Confound this penguin suit!” Haddock complained, tugging at the shiny lapels of his dinner jacket. “How anyone wears these fancy shmancy straight jackets for pleasure is beyond me.”

Tintin chuckled. He had to agree with the Captain there. His own tailor made evening suit fitted him perfectly, but he always felt uncomfortable in it. It felt dishonest somehow, as if he were deceiving people by his appearance. Ironic, he mused, considering his penchant for donning disguises over the course of his adventuring.

“Merciful marsupials, at least that blasted woman is nowhere to be seen,” Haddock sighed gratefully after scanning the crowd of guests inside the orangery. “Or heard, eh boy?” he added with a wink at Snowy, who whined at the memory of the Milanese Nightingale's singing.

“Captain, don't be rude,” Tintin admonished. “Mademoiselle Castafiore is a dear friend.”

“SHUSH!” Haddock clamped a hand on the younger man's face. “You'll call her out!”

Tintin pushed him off. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“Here's another lesson, lad – women have ears in every ship's quarter.”

“Yes, well, so do reporters. Therefore _I_ am going to do my job.”

“Aye, well, you know where to find me once you've had your fill of snooping,” said Haddock and motioned to Snowy. “Come on, you four legged mutineer. Let's get ourselves some refreshments.”

Tintin only rolled his eyes with a faint smile as the Captain strode purposefully off towards the bar, with Snowy following at an eager pace.

The last rays of evening sunlight passed through rooftop panes of clear and coloured glass overhead, illuminating everything in a hazy glow. Exotic plants hung from metal rafters and filled every corner of the room, giving off a rich, earthy scent that made him long for the jungles of the Congo.

After a minute, he caught sight of Gilligan Ratbagh talking enthusiastically to some wealthy socialites beside a display of rare orchids. He was a pallid faced, greasy little man who loved to brag of his great expeditions abroad, though they never lived up to scrutiny. In truth, Tintin knew Gilligan wasn't a man who enjoyed straying very far from his home comforts, but he had a knack for lying and knew how to use his talents well.

He let his attention drift elsewhere to new, more interesting pastures, smiling politely at the other guests as he explored the building. It didn't take him long to find something. Three gentlemen had gathered by a fountain at the centre of the room, loudly discussing the latest news from the continent. Tintin averted his gaze and subtly tuned in, half expecting the discussion to be centred around the rising threat of war between Borduria and Syldavia. To his mild surprise, the heated debate was focused on the identity of the very thief on his mind.

“But did you hear the latest?” the first man, a major with a magnificently long powder white moustache, was asking his fellows. “Just last month he struck a museum in Prague. Crafty little beggar. Not a soul saw him nip in or out!”

“How do you know it's a he then?” the second, a round-bellied gentleman sporting a monocle, asked with a teasing glint in his eye.

“Don't be preposterous!” the Major snorted. “Can you see a _woman_ braving such feats?”

“I don't know. I'm pretty sure my wife would step over my own mother for a diamond necklace.”

“I'd step over your mother for another brandy,” the third man quipped.

“Here, steady on, Stark!”

“Nothing brave about it, chaps,” said the Major. “By all accounts he's a to-bit petty thief in fancy get up. Strip him of his glad rags and all you have is another bloody lazy prole!”

Tintin fought the urge to roll his eyes as the gentlemen laughed and jeered, their conversation turning to snide comments aimed at those less fortunate than them to be born into wealth.

Sometimes Tintin wondered if the ladies and gents of high society would so readily welcome him into their midst if they knew of his own poor background. Perhaps they did and Tintin's presence was just another interesting foreign addition to their collection of unusual, exciting things to faun over until the next interesting thing came along to pass the time.

Nonetheless, their conversation intrigued him.

“Yes, yes,” the monocled man said in a complaining tone, “but if this thief was nipping about stealing things for a quick buck, why not steal items of more value? I mean, a grand piano and some mouldy old polar bears? Hardly the Mona Lisa. I'd wager there's something stranger afoot...”

His leading tone had clearly caught the attention of his friends, whose silence urged him on. Tintin strained his ears as the man leaned into his companions conspiratorially.

“I have it on good authority from a connection at Interpol that other items have been stolen in addition to those reported - foreign goods appropriated during the great carve up of Africa. There is evidence that many of the stolen items have since been returned to their original owners on the African continent. Strangest part is that the owners demanded that any mention of these particular goods be kept out of the papers. All very curious, isn't it?”

The third man, a tall lanky gent with a shock of red hair and a pencil thin moustache, shook his head in disgust. “Why on earth would a thief go to all the trouble of stealing some worthless barbaric tribal trinkets just to give them away? What on earth would they get out of it?”

“Perhaps the savage communities are paying him a fee to return their lost treasures?” the Major offered.

“What, in bloody coconuts?!”

The three men guffawed with laughter. Tintin chose this moment to tune out of the conversation. He had heard enough; there was only so much time he could stomach listening to boorish rich men for, and he had more than filled his quota for the evening. Perhaps the Captain was right. He was already starting to yearn for the quiet peaceful solitude of his little apartment back home.

He spent the next half hour making idle chit chat before retreating to a quiet corner of the room where he could stand and observe Gilligan's glamorous guests as they swanned across the polished tiled floor, diamonds glittering in the lamplight.

“A stage where every man must play their part,” he muttered to himself.

“And I the fool,” a lilting French accent added, close to his ear.

Tintin turned to find a young woman standing beside him, watching the crowd with steady hazel coloured eyes. She turned to face him with a wry smile.

“There are plenty here who glitter as gold, mon ame, but on closer inspection you find they are as abundant as Pyrite.”

Tintin returned her smile. “Do all the guests attending quote _The Merchant of Venice_ so readily?”

“I believe quoting Shakespeare is a prerequisite for entering any English gathering,” she quipped.

Tintin smiled and turned to face her fully. “Are you not enjoying the evening, Mademoiselle?”

“On the contrary. I find observing the odd eccentricities of such social gatherings terribly fascinating. Look, over there - observe as the Marquis du Bonne and the Earl of Chichester strut and display their plumage in an effort to court the fair Lady Barking,” she whispered to him conspiratorially and Tintin laughed, finding himself intrigued by this strange young woman. She fixed her hooded gaze on him properly for the first time, taking in his youthful face and stubbornly upright quiff that no amount of combing could tame. “Could you be the famous reporter from Brussels? Monsieur Tintin?”

He ducked his head, a little embarrassed. “ _Infamous_ in some circles, I believe.”

She smiled teasingly. “Yes, so I have heard.”

Tintin felt his cheeks tinge pink and suddenly felt the need to steer the conversation as far away from himself as possible. “I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Mademoiselle...?

“Baudelaire”, she replied, offering him a silk gloved hand. “But please, call me Amara. This evening is quite dull enough to lumber it further with formalities, wouldn't you agree?”

Her teasing smile lit her pretty heart-shaped face in a most pleasant way, Tintin thought idly as he took her hand. A memory suddenly clicked into place.

“Madame Baudelaire?” he repeated, impressed. “Of the Baudelaire Children's Foundation?”

Now it was she who looked embarrassed. “Oui. I did not think that was common knowledge. Most know me only through my late husband.”

“I have followed the foundation's work in Syldavian orphanages for quite some time,” he said keenly. Tintin did not want to admit it out loud for risk of seeming foolish, but his first published article had been written on the organisation's charitable acts. Having had grown up in an orphanage himself, it was a subject close to his heart. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Madame.”

“We appear to have something in common then,” she said thoughtfully. “I too have followed many of your stories in the French papers. Come, walk with me. I would love to hear more of your thrilling adventures, Monsieur Tintin.”

They walked the circumference of the room arm in arm, chatting happily, before moving to stand by one of the open doors. Late summer sunshine had given way to a pleasant starry evening, perfumed by the honeysuckle climbing around the exterior of the glass orangery. Tintin took a deep breath, feeling pleasantly light-headed, though he was still sipping his first glass of champagne. Conversation with Amara flowed easily and he found himself quite happy in her company. She was quick witted, with a razor sharp intellect and warmth he rarely encountered. She exuded an easy confidence, but without the haughtiness that often accompanied people of her position.

“No, you flew here in a UPF-7?!” she gasped with a delighted laugh. “That was my favourite aircraft as a child!”

“It's very light and the drag on the wings isn't too bad for a biplane,” said Tintin, pleased to have the opportunity to discuss his passion for aircraft for once. “And perfect for short crossings.”

“My father taught me to fly in a Stearman 75. It was a gift for my eleventh birthday. I remember that morning so well. I flew downstairs to find it sitting on the freshly cut grass, gleaming candy-apple red with a big bow wrapped around the propeller.” Amara looked at him askance and smirked. “Yes, I was terribly spoiled. You needn't look at me like that.”

Tintin raised his hands in a placating gesture, chuckling. “I have no idea what you mean, Madame.”

“Amara, please, mon ame.” She took his arm again. “I haven't laughed so much at one of these events in years. To be perfectly honest, I find all this pomp and glory a little ridiculous,” she confided in him. “I'd much rather stay home with a good book.”

“I fear I share your feelings on the matter,” Tintin admitted, before sharing with her the earlier conversation he had eavesdropped on.

Amara rolled her eyes. “Oh yes. I know those gentlemen all too well. I believe they take turns sharing the one brain cell they have between them.”

Tintin laughed.

“But tell me, you must have some insight into this daring young _voleur_?” Amara leaned into him a little closer, eyes full of curiosity. “Have you been following his trail?” she asked eagerly.

Suddenly, her proximity and sweet perfume felt a little overwhelming. He found himself momentarily lost in the sweep of her long eyelashes and the heat of her against his side. He unravelled his arm from Amara's with the pretence of switching the champagne glass in his left hand to his right in order to take a sip, and tried not to choke when he swallowed too much.

“I've been looking into the case,” he wheezed as the champagne fizzed down his throat. “Nothing interesting to speak of yet.”

Tintin felt bad for being dishonest, but he had decided to keep his cards close to his chest for the time being. Amara, for her part, seemed to see right through him. She shot him a shrewd, knowing look.

“Is that so?” she said, eyeing the faint outline of the black eye _Le Kaitou_ had given him two nights before. Her smile turned teasing again. “Or perhaps you have come to Gilligan's party this evening to search for possible suspects?”

Tintin raised an eyebrow. “You think _Le Kaitou_ could be a gentleman thief?”

“Our very own Arsène Lupin.”

He cast an eye across the crowd. “Hmm, interesting prospect. If so, who would be on your list of suspects, Madame?”

“Well, he would have to be nimble. Smart. Cunning. Someone you would least expect.” Amara turned her steady gaze to him. “Someone who travels regularly and has access to all the finest establishments in Europe.”

Tintin caught her staring at him openly and froze in horror. “You don't think that I – _great snakes!_ ”

Peels of laughter broke out as she clutched his arm to her chest lightly. “Oh mon ame, I apologise! I simply could not resist. You need not look so scandalised, my dear little journalist. You are far too sincere and noble hearted to be our wicked thief.”

“You had me going there for a bit.” Tintin's shoulders relaxed in obvious relief, but he found he was not quite ready to pull away from her again just yet.

“Just my terrible sense of humour.” She laid a hand over the arm entwined with hers once more, pressing lightly. It felt like an intimate gesture, one laced with meaning he didn't feel remotely equipped to decode. “You must be the last honest man on Earth, mon petit chroniqueur. I doubt you've ever put a foot wrong.”

“Two feet,” Tintin felt his breath hitch, suddenly feeling leagues out of his depth. “With great regularity, I'm afraid.”

Amara nodded, hazel eyes studying him with a heated interest that made his heart race. She licked her lips, as if weighing her next words carefully. Tintin waited, feeling his breath hitch in his chest. He had never fallen so completely under someone's spell before. It was a new and exhilarating feeling - one he wasn't particularly sure he liked. But just as her lips parted, they were interrupted by raucous laughter and a hand came clapping down on Tintin's back.

“TINTIN, MA'BOY! I haven't seen you all evenin'!” Haddock bellowed, raising an empty glass in the air. “Where have you been squirrelling yourself away all night?”

Tintin fought the urge to glare at his old friend. The older man's cheeks were bright red and the smell of liquor bubbled around him. “Captain,” he bit out slowly, an icy edge to his tone, “allow me to introduce to you Madame Baudelaire.”

Haddock blinked at them blearily, swaying to and fro. "M'lady! How'd yeh do. Have you met my dear friend, Tintin?"

To her credit, Amara smiled broadly and clasped one of Haddock enormous hairy hands in hers. “I have indeed, Capitan. And how are you finding this evening?”

“Keeps shlippin' away from me, but I'll catch it eventually,” Haddock slurred.

Tintin covered his eyes in embarrassment, but before he could steer the Captain away for some much needed fresh air, another guest joined them, bringing a hand down on Haddock's back with a hearty slap that nearly sent the old sea dog crashing to the floor.

“Archibald Haddock, while I live and breathe!”

“Blistering blundering birdbrain!” Haddock spluttered, wheeling about to face the stranger. “Watch what you're doing, you red haired hell beastie!”

The man grinned toothily, entirely unfazed by the Captain's assault on his ears. “Come now, Captain, don't be like that. It's me – Stark!”

Tintin frowned - he recognised the guest as one of the men he had overhead talking earlier.

He was a tall man and elegantly dressed in ivory tails and matching trousers, with a gold embroidered waistcoat and red cravat. His copper coloured hair was slicked back with too much pencil pomade and his thin moustache and goatee gave him an almost comical look of villainy.

Tintin could not pinpoint why, but he felt an immediate and visceral dislike of the man. Perhaps it was something in the way he smiled at the room as if he was in on a private joke and only he knew the punchline. He carried an air of carefree flamboyancy, the sort Tintin had become accustomed to when dealing with the very rich, but it was almost too practised, too showy, to strike him as the genuine article. Beneath the thin facade was a fox spying on a chicken coup, sharp eyes darting through the crowds, seeking out a weakness in the fence.

“Whit? Stork?” Haddock blinked, perplexed. “I don't know any blasted Stork!” Then his bushy eyebrows furrowed in thought as a hazy memory came back to him. “Wait- you're that card shark from Izmir! Blast it Stark, you owe me one thousand lira!”

Stark quickly ignored him, turning smoothly to cast a syrupy, flirtatious smile on Amara. Tintin felt her stiffen by his side.

“And Madame Baudelaire, don't you look ravishing this evening!” he said, deftly cranking up the charm. “I swear you get younger and more beautiful each time we meet.”

Tintin was surprised to find that the man's smile was not reflected in Amara's expression. Instead, she openly glared at him.

“Your silver tongue grows all the quicker, Mr Stark.”

“Ah, but it makes my kisses all the sweeter.” He caught her fingers in one hand and dipped his head towards them, but Amara snapped her hand away.

“I think I'll retire early tonight. Good evening, gentlemen,” she said tersely, with a brief curtsey, before turning to Tintin with an apologetic smile. “Enjoy your evening, mon petit chroniqueur. I very much hope we can continue our acquaintance in the near future.”

Startled by her quick departure, Tintin could only nod dumbly and watch her disappear into the crowded room. Her absence left him feeling a little hollow. It suddenly struck him that he should follow and check on her well-being, but before he could take a step the copper-haired man nimbly blocked his path.

“I say, could it really be Tintin? The intrepid little reporter from Brussels?” he asked eagerly, staring in obvious surprise.

Tintin bristled in irritation and glanced wildly around for the Captain, but it seemed his sly old friend had made himself scarce.

“Gideon Stark,” he introduced himself brightly, offering a hand. Noting Tintin's hesitation, Gideon grinned and cocked an eyebrow, cheekily. “I'd offer to kiss your hand too if I didn't think you'd be even less inclined to accept than Madame Baudelaire was.”

Tintin shook the man's hand, smiling tightly. “A pleasure, Mr Stark,” he bit out.

Gideon grinned and tightened his grip. "All mine, I assure you."

 _Yes_ , Tintin thought ruefully, _on that we can most certainly agree_.

Gideon raised an eyebrow with a look of amusement that gave Tintin the discomfiting feeling the other man had read his thoughts and found them nothing short of hilarious. Slipping his hands into his pockets, Gideon rocked back onto his heels with an appraising look.

“I must say, you're nothing like I imagined. Nipping about the way you do, getting into all sorts of madcap scrapes, I expected something more like... well, old Haddock, if I'm honest.”

Gideon motioned towards the Captain, who was standing in front of the band at the far end of the room. Haddock had his arms around the shoulders of two equally drunken guests and the three of them were attempting to conduct the poor musicians along to a horribly out of tune rendition of Flower of Scotland.

“I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mr Stark,” Tintin replied dryly.

“Oh. Not disappointed. Intrigued. _Fascinated_.” Gideon stepped closer to Tintin, the smile never leaving his blue eyes as he looked down at him. “But never disappointed. A man who can capture Madame Baudelaire's interest so quickly must be quite a man indeed.” He laughed dryly. “Unless of course it was you who was captured, _mon petit chroniqueur_?”

Tintin tensed his jaw in an effort to bite back the words he knew he would regret. Thankfully, Haddock chose this moment to return, grasping them both by the shoulders and swinging them around.

“Stark, you jellied eel! Leave the lad alone and come back to the main house with us,” Haddock ordered. “We've got a game to settle!”

“Right-o, Captain! If you insist,” Gideon replied with a laugh.

Tintin followed the group of men as they piled out of the orangery into the night with a sick feeling in his gut. “Captain, tell me you are not gambling! You know how you get when you've had a drink,” he whispered fiercely into Haddock's ear and was about to continue his lecture before he realised with some alarm that their canine companion was longer glued to the Captain's feet, hoping to catch a few drops of spilt liquor. “And where on earth did you leave poor Snowy?”

“Snowy?” Haddock repeated, drowsily. “Ohh the land shark. Ach he nipped off hours ago. He'll be chasing rabbits, Timtim, don't you worry your wee baby faced ginger head.”

“Baby face?” Gideon repeated, gleefully. “Ha! That rather suits you.”

“And I'd rather you didn't use it in the future, if it's all the same to you,” Tintin snapped.

“In the future?” Gideon fell into step beside him as they crossed the grass towards the main building, eyes twinkling with humour. “I'm glad you see our acquaintance continuing, my friend.”

 _Friend is a very strong word_ , Tintin thought, but chose to keep this sentiment to himself. With any luck, Gideon would draw meaning enough from his silence. He quickened his pace to leave the arrogant man behind and caught up to the Captain.

“Captain, please – go to your room and sleep this off. No good will come of gambling tonight.”

Haddock snorted. “Noooo, we're not gambling, are we lads?” he shouted to the group of well sauced gentlemen, who responded with a chorus of falsetto of: “Noooo!” “Just a few brandies.” “And a few sing songs!” “We'll get old Ratbagh's butler to play us a some tunes on the piano, eh?” “Maybe he'll even give us a dance!”

Tintin noted the small group included the old Major and the round-bellied man with the monocle and sighed. He did not trust them any more than he trusted Gideon Stark.

“Captain, please-”

But the Captain had been swallowed by the group and was too busy staggering up the stone steps to the house. Before climbing the stairs, Haddock stopped to position his hat on top of one of the stone birds and booped it on the nose, before chuckling and swaying unsteadily into the house. Tintin stood outside helplessly.

“Don't worry, old boy,” said Gideon, patting his back. “I shall look out for him tonight.”

And with a quick salute and a wink, Gideon nipped up the stairs and joined the foray inside. Tintin felt about as reassured by his words as a bird would feel by an invitation to swim with a crocodile. He ran his fingers through his short hair in frustration and almost wished he had not agreed to Gilligan Ratbagh's invitation to attend the evening. But as Amara's hazel eyes and lightly teasing smile came unbidden into his mind, he found he couldn't bring himself to regret the night entirely.

Feeling jittery and unsettled, he knew he would not be able to sleep just yet. Neither did he fancy returning to the party in the orangery, and following Haddock and his companions into the drawing room just to bare witness to a night of drunken antics and gambling was out of the question. Instead he opted for a stroll around the gardens in search of Snowy and some much needed solitude. The evening was still warm and delicately perfumed, without a breath of wind. He inhaled the peaceful quiet and found himself staring in wonder at the blanket of glittering stars overhead.

He had been walking for a good half hour, lost in thoughts of _Le Kaitou_ , when suddenly he heard a voice whisper to him from a small copse of trees. He spun towards the sound, bracing himself for an attack. When none came, he waited and listened intently.

“ _Psst!_ ” the urgent voice came again. “Over here, mate!”

Tintin squinted through the dark, trying to make out the figure half hidden behind the trunk of a tree. The figure beckoned hurriedly. Tintin cautiously crept nearer, his hand drifting towards the revolver he normally kept in his back pocket, then his heart sank when he realised he hadn't thought to conceal a weapon in his evening suit.

“Who's there?” he demanded.

“It's me!” an anxious voice whispered back. “Gilligan!”

“Mr Ratbagh?”

“Rat- _baw_ ,” Gilligan snapped back irritably in his heavy Cockney accent. “It's pronounced Rat- _baw_. Why's that so bleedin' hard for everyone to remember?”

Tintin dropped his defensive stance and walked up to him. “What are you doing hiding way out here? These are your own grounds, aren't they?”

“Pah!” Gilligan gave a harsh laugh, his beady little eyes darting about, twitching at every shadow. “What I'd give never to have stepped foot in this bloody place.” His expression turned desperate and fearful. “You've got to help me, Tintin. I'm in a right old mess.”

Tintin sighed. He'd guessed as much. Whenever Gilligan contacted him it was always to pull him out of some mess or another. “Whatever's the matter now?”

“Can't talk here, old mate. Eyes and ears everywhere, 'specially tonight. Never expected them to show up here, mind. Right on my own doorstep. The bleedin' nerve.” Gilligan dabbed at his sweaty forehead. “Meet me at Hotel Metropole tomorrow evening. Promise me you'll come, mate. I don't know how much longer-” He stopped suddenly, ducking around as if he'd heard a noise. He grasped the lapels of Tintin's evening jacket and began to tremble. “Please, Tintin. It's life or death. _Mine!_ ”

“Of course I'll be there,” said Tintin, patting the man's arm in an effort to calm him. He had never seen Gilligan so rattled before. “I'll be there.”

That seemed to calm Gilligan's nerves a little. He took a steadying breath and nodded. “Good. Good. Thanks. Knew I could count on you,” he said, smiling weakly. “I'd better be off. They don't like lettin' me out of their sight for long.”

And without another word, Gilligan slipped back into the trees along what Tintin presumed was a more private way back to Basil Hall.

It didn't dawn on him until a minute later that Gilligan had invited him to the same hotel _Le Kaitou_ had announced as the scene of his next crime.

_A coincidence? I very much doubt it..._

There was a rustle in the bushes close by and for a moment Tintin hoped it was Gilligan returning to explain all this madness. Then a little white snout appeared through the brush, sniffing excitedly, and Snowy emerged fully, his canine face a study of concentration. Evidently he had been tracking down some poor unfortunate night creature. His shiny black nose twitched upon Tintin's boot and he cocked his head in a puzzled manner, before looking up to find his master glaring down at him.

“And where have you been?”

Snowy wagged his tail happily and barked. _You wouldn't believe it Tintin! I found the oddest little creature skulking around outside that big glass house._

Deaf to the fox terrier's words, Tintin merely rolled his eyes and waved him along.

“Come on, boy. Let's get to bed.” He cupped his hands behind his back and strolled towards the main house, Snowy trotting at his heels. “I have a nasty feeling we won't see much rest for a while after tonight.”

His words were nothing short of prophetic. Morning arrived with the sounds of Haddock's raucous rantings and ravings from the pebbled driveway in front of the main house.

Tintin poked his head out his window, rubbing at his bleary eyes.

“Captain?”

“VILLAIN! TURNCOAT! RED EYED RUMINANT!”

“Captain, what on earth's the matter?” Tintin called down.

Haddock spun around and glared up at him, red faced and angrier than Tintin could ever recall seeing him.

“I'll tell you what's wrong!” He thrust a finger at Gideon Stark, who was sauntering along the driveway towards him with the lazy smile of a cat who had just caught a mouse. “THAT SHIP-WRECKING NEST OF RATTLESNAKES IS WHAT'S WRONG!”

“Come, come now, Haddock, old chum! You needn't be that way,” Gideon drawled. “It was nothing personal. Just Poker.”

Tintin felt the colour drain from his face. “Captain, what have you done?”

But Haddock appeared to be frozen with pure rage, his jaw opening and closing like a fish out of water. Gideon patted the Captain's shoulder and smiled brightly up at Tintin.

“Oh, good morning, Baby-face!” he called with a friendly wave. “You're looking at the new owner of Marlinspike Hall.”

“What?!” Tintin shouted, gripping the window ledge.

“Oh and your light aircraft too, I'm afraid,” Gideon added, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “You wouldn't happen to need a lift back to Brussels, would you?”

**oOo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gideon's a loveable asshole, pass it on.


	4. Chapter 4

**oOo**

Fierce winds buffeted the little plane as they flew over West Flanders. Tintin sorely wished he had control of the aircraft, but now that it no longer belonged to the Captain, he found himself at the mercy of Gideon Stark's flying skills. Now he was sandwiched into the front cockpit with Haddock and Snowy, while the Englishman piloted from the aft, cheerfully whistling along to the howl of the storm.

The engine stuttered and whined, and the three passengers held their breath as the little plane plummeted several feet, before miraculously righting itself again. Snowy burrowed himself at the foot of the cockpit with a whimper, while Haddock promptly emptied the contents of his stomach over the side of the plane.  
  
“Hmm, there's going to be a bit of foul weather in Bruges this morning,” Gideon commented dryly.  
  
Feeling his temper rise, Tintin turned in his seat to confront him. “Mr Stark, I thought you said you knew how to fly!” he shouted over the roaring wind.  
  
“I do,” Gideon called back cheerfully. “I didn't say I was any good though. That's on you, old sport.”  
  
Tintin glared and bit his tongue before he said anything he would come to regret. His heart sank as he spotted the grounds of Marlinspike Hall in the near distance. A serious, experienced pilot could deal with these gusts and crosswinds, but Stark was neither experienced nor serious. Tintin doubted he would be able to land in stable conditions, never mind the current foul weather.  
  
“You might want to hold on, Captain,” he muttered to his friend.  
  
Haddock swallowed thickly. “Thundering typhoons...”  
  
The landing was bumpier than he would have liked and drove deep gouges into the freshly cut grass in front of Marlinspike Hall, but they made it in one piece. Nestor would not be pleased, but Tintin reminded himself that a ruined lawn would soon be the least of the long suffering butler's worries.  
  
Gideon jumped out of the plane and removed his goggles before taking a deep breath and sighing happily. “Ah, Marlinspike Hall. Smell that clean country air!”  
  
“It certainly was before we landed,” Tintin muttered as he glanced sideways at the little plane's engine, now belching out thick clouds of oily smoke.  
  
Haddock scrambled out of the cockpit and dove towards the bushes, where he relieved himself of the remnants of his stomach. “If I never step foot inside one of those blasted flying contraptions again it'll be too soon!”  
  
“It serves you right,” Tintin admonished crossly. “You've gotten yourself into a fine mess this time, Captain.”  
  
“Oh leave him be, Baby-face. We all make silly mistakes sometimes,” said Gideon, then clapped his hands together. “Now what's say we freshen up and meet in my new parlour for a bit of breakfast?”  
  
Haddock thrust a finger toward him. “ _You_ will not set one foot inside _my_ house!” he barked furiously, but it was hard to cut a menacing figure doubled over as he was against a tree with the remains of last night's dinner at his feet.  
  
Tintin quickly decided to leave them to it. “If the Captain really does lose Marlinspike over some ridiculous drunken bet, he may finally learn his lesson,” he told Snowy angrily as they made their way along the country road in the direction of home. “He's made his bed and now he must lie in it.” Snowy gave a questioning little whine. Tintin sighed, dropping some of the tension in his shoulders. “You're right. I'm being too hard on him. I just wish he would be a little more responsible sometimes, that's all. But then he wouldn't be our Captain, would he? We shall find a way to help him after we solve this _Kaitou Red_ mystery.”  
  
He caught a ride into Brussels and, after a quick bath and change of clothes at his apartment, made his way to the central library in order to follow up on Kitty Spitz's investigation. To his dismay, he discovered Kitty was not at work, but was assured she would be at her post first thing the following morning.  
  
He looked to Snowy, who sat obediently at his feet with wagging tail, awaiting instructions on their next move.  
  
“I suppose we should make our way to the Metropole,” said Tintin.  
  
The sheer grandeur of the Metropole Hotel intimidated most with its rich furnishings, gleaming floors and ornate Corinthian pillars, but Tintin had a knack for seeming right at home in the strangest of places. A number of journalists were milling about the lobby. Clearly they had formed the same idea he had and were hoping to catch a glimpse or a even a snap of Europe's infamous thief. An overnight stay at the Metropole Hotel was not cheap, however and few on a reporter's wage could ever afford a night there. Luckily for him, the manager of the Metropole, Mr Nevers, was more than willing to grant him free lodgings after Tintin had uncovered the embezzlement of funds by the hotel's greedy account the previous year.  
  
The lobby concierge did not take kindly to guests of the four-legged variety, but he was quickly fussed out of the way by Mr Nevers.  
  
“Mr Tintin and his companion, Monsieur Snowy, are our guests and shall be treated with the utmost care!” said the manager, snapping his fingers importantly.  
  
Tintin suspected Mr Nevers was rather hoping he would sniff out _le Kaitou_ before the thief had a chance to make off with the Jade Cross. A loss like that would certainly tarnish the hotel's reputation.  
  
After settling into their luxurious room for the night, Tintin made his way down to piano bar. The brasserie was a wide space situated beneath a glass roof and furnished with comfortable wicker chairs, palms and trickling water features. He took a seat at a table tucked away amongst a flourish of tall bamboo palms, pulled out his notebook and set to work.  
  
“Let's see, Snowy,” he began, tearing off a piece of his sandwich and passing it to the eagerly waiting fox terrier, who had plopped down next to his feet. “Who are the players in this little mystery? First we have the owner of the Jade Cross, Nicholai von Hertz. Hertz is a world renowned art historian from Borduria. The Jade Cross was recently discovered when the demolition of a building in Florence revealed an ancient crypt full of treasures. Hertz purchased the cross from a medieval art exhibition hosted at the Metropole one week ago and is due to collect it today.”  
  
He tapped his fountain pen against his chin after scribbling some notes down, before tearing off another piece of his lunch to pass to Snowy under the table. Snowy snapped it up in one bite and idly wondered why his master had barely touched the food himself. _Tintin always gets this way when he's working,_ the little dog mused. _He says he thinks clearer on an empty stomach. Humans are such odd creatures.  
  
_ “The strange thing here is the Jade Cross. Unlike most other items stolen by _le Kaitou_ , it has quite a great deal of historical value. It reminds me of the theft of the Pharaoh's Tooth from Mr Takamura.” He rested his chin on his steepled fingers and mulled the facts over. He still could not draw any conclusions or logical links between the stolen goods. In terms of value they were quite random. “Perhaps I shouldn't be looking at the stolen items at all,” he muttered to himself. “Perhaps I should be paying attention to the victims instead? Maybe a link can be found there. Let's see. Jiro Takamura is the head of Yakuza crime family on Kyushu Island in Japan. I wonder if there is a criminal element linking the victims somehow and that is why _le Kaitou_ has targeted them.”  
  
“Your little grey cells are hard at work, I see.”  
  
Tintin started at the voice. A familiar scent of honeysuckle wafted over and he turned around to find Madame Baudelaire sitting at the table behind him, smiling through the green fronds of the palms separating them.  
  
“Madame!” he exclaimed, surprised. “I didn't expect to see you again so soon.”  
  
“You sound disappointed, mon ami.”  
  
“Not in the least,” he said and found he truly meant it. “What brings you to Brussels?”  
  
“I'm afraid it is just a quick stop-over on my return home to Syldavia,” she replied, her cheeks turning a dusky shade of pink. “Admittedly I had hoped to run into you. If it's not too forward, I wondered if you might join me for dinner this evening?”  
  
Tintin almost dropped his pen in surprise. “Oh. Erm...”  
  
“Do not look so scandalised,” she laughed, a wide smile stretching across her dimpled cheeks. “I have been travelling with two very faithful servants, but I'm afraid their conversation is a little...monosyllabic.” She subtly tilted her head towards two imposing looking men standing close to the brasserie's arched doorway. Their straight backs, broad shoulders and glowering expressions emphasized her point all too well. Tintin conceded they did not look like great conversationalists.  
  
“Dinner would be delightful, Madame,” he replied kindly. “Though I must warn you I'm here on work. There's a good chance I may be drawn away at short notice.”  
  
Amara raised a delicate eyebrow and drew him a knowing look, but stayed quiet about her suspicions regarding the subject of his work. Gathering her purse, she stood and walked around to his table.  
  
“Excellent, then I shall see you tonight. Seven o'clock at the hotel piano suite?” she said, eyes glinting with mischief at the look on his face.  
  
“Er, yes,” Tintin nodded a little dumbly. “This evening it is, then. I look forward to it, Madame.”  
  
Snowy glanced between the two, cocking his head curiously at the strange tension in the air.  
  
“As do I, _mon petite chroniqueur._ ”  
  
Once again Tintin found himself watching Amara's retreating figure with an odd ache in his chest. Something about her was certainly intoxicating and he could see by the way she drew the eyes of the brasserie's other customers that he was not alone in thinking so.  
  
A short, sharp yip pulled him away from his thoughts.  
  
“What is it, Snowy?”  
  
Snowy put his front paws on his lap and gave another bark that Tintin fancied was a little judgemental.  
  
“I don't know what- great snakes!” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “I forgot all about poor Gilligan. I promised to meet him this evening. I wonder if he's checked in already?”  
  
Pocketing his notebook and tossing the remainder of his sandwich to Snowy, he returned to the lobby to enquire after Mr Ratbagh.  
  
But if Gilligan had arrived at the Metropole, he had not checked in.  
  
“Could I leave a message for him, please?” he asked the concierge. “It's quite urgent. When Mr Ratbagh checks in, could you let him know I shall be in the piano bar from 7pm? If he should prefer to see me earlier, my room number is 714.”  
  
“Excellent, sir. I shall call your room when Mr Ratbag arrives.”  
  
“It's Mr Ratbagh, actually. The G is sile-”  
  
“Well if it isn't Tintin and his little dog!”  
  
“Should have expected you would be here.”  
  
“To be precise, we never expect anything.”  
  
Tintin turned with a grin towards the two Scotland Yard detectives standing in the lobby. They raised their identical bowler hats in unison.  
  
“Thompson and Thomson, what luck!” he cried. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I was hoping to catch up with you at some point soon.”  
  
“Ah, well young man, we are here on official headquarter business,” Thompson said, tipping his hat conspiratorially.  
  
Tintin grinned knowingly and bent his head towards them to whisper, “To catch _Kaitou Red_ , I expect?”  
  
The detectives wrinkled their moustaches in irritable unison.  
  
“Good grief, those devilish newspapers!”  
  
“To be precise, that devilish thief!”  
  
“Printing the scoop!”  
  
“Scooping the headlines!”  
  
“Can't keep anything secret any more. Makes our job much harder,” said Thomson, then gave Tintin an apologetic look. “Er, no offence meant, young man.”  
  
“None taken,” Tintin chuckled. “Is the Jade Cross still on the premises?”  
  
“Indeed it is, guarded on the top floor and protected by the best men on the force.” Thompson swelled his chest with pride. “Not a soul can nip in our out!”  
  
“But would it not be safer to move it off site to some place less conspicuous? Somewhere the thief would not know?”  
  
The detectives scoffed.  
  
“HO! We have tried that rouse before. Didn't quite pan out as planned.”  
  
“To be precise, we were out-roused.”  
  
Tintin frowned. “Then surely there must be an insider?”  
  
Both detectives started, looking horrified at the idea.  
  
“Steady on, Tintin!”  
  
“That's quite the accusation to make.”  
  
Tintin raised his hands in apology. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean any offence. It's just that... How on earth did _le Kaitou_ discover the item had been hidden elsewhere?”  
  
The detectives exchanged a look of embarrassment.  
  
“Well...we're not quite sure about that just yet.”  
  
“To be precise, we're not sure of anything.”  
  
“But we can vouch for the unimpeachable character of our officers,” Thompson added in an admonishing tone.  
  
“Yes, of course,” said Tintin, though the news made him wonder. _How could le Kaitou know that those items had been moved to a more secure location without an informer?_ he thought to himself. _He couldn't possibly have eyes and ears everywhere._ “Have you any suspects at all?” he asked at length.  
  
“Oh yes, plenty.”  
  
“Dozens!”  
  
“Hundreds!”  
  
“To be precise, we have too many.”  
  
“I see. Would it be possible to see the room?”  
  
The detectives agreed to take Tintin to the top floor, which he discovered was only accessible by a single elevator. When they reached the floor, the elevator's shiny brass doors slid open to reveal a large, sparsely decorated red room lit by state of the art fluorescent lighting. Other than four marble busts lining two opposing walls and a large rectangular plinth holding a metal box in the centre of the room, the furnishings were non-existent. It was a windowless box with only one way in and one way out.  
  
Six officers stood guard between each bust, eyes fixed on the gold plated metal box sitting atop the plinth that Tintin could only assume held the Jade Cross.  
  
Detective Thompson clicked his fingers at the guards, importantly. “Show him our state of the art defence system, lads!”  
  
Four of the officers moved from their position between the marble busts to surround the plinth, and Tintin watched with keen interest as each one produced a key and slotted it inside its respective concealed lock.  
  
“Each officer has their own unique lock and key to the box, you see,” said Detective Thomson, and Tintin noted how each officer turned and twisted their key in a different pattern. “But the trick of it is, the box will only open when the four locks are opened simultaneously with their respective keys. Marvellous ingenuity, isn't it?”  
  
Tintin could only nod in wonder as the box sprang open to reveal a Celtic cross sitting on a velvet cushion beneath a glass dome. The Jade Cross was larger than he expected and richly designed with fine gold detailing depicting birds in flight. Emerald stones adorned the four dark green stems, equal in length and each tip fixed with an elegant golden sphere.  
  
“It's beautiful,” Tintin remarked.  
  
“It's priceless,” a sharp voice replied. “And who may I ask is this?”  
  
Thomson and Thompson looked a little shamefaced as a broad-shouldered man strode furiously into the room. Everything about him was clipped, from his voice to his beard, to his black evening suit. Snowy, who had been sitting obediently at his master's feet, took an instant dislike to him, issuing a low warning growl.  
  
“Er, this is Tintin,” said Detective Thomson. “Quite a famous reporter, you know.”  
  
“To be precise, quite famous.”  
  
“Tintin?” the man repeated in a voice as steely as the gaze he had fixed on the young journalist. “Can't say I've heard the name. But tell me detectives, do you really think it's proper to have wild reporters running about a potential crime scene? Considering I have just acquired the Jade Cross, the Bordurian bureau would be most displeased to hear of its disappearance under your watch.”  
  
Detective Thompson cleared his throat, uncomfortably. “Well, that is to say, it's not a crime scene _yet_ , is it?”  
  
“Quite right, nor shall it be!” said Detective Thomson, raising his cane to the ceiling. “You have the best men on the case, Mr Hertz.”  
  
“Mr Hertz?” Tintin repeated. “Nicholai von Hertz?” He held out his hand and smiled, while surreptitiously pushing a still growling Snowy back with his foot. “Sorry for barging in, I meant no harm. I was simply curious about the defences employed to protect the Jade Cross.”  
  
“I'm sure you are,” von Hertz stated, his deep voice dripping with suspicion. He did not shake Tintin's hand. “As I'm sure _le Kaitou_ is, too.”  
  
Tintin frowned. “I'm no thief, Mr Hertz. I'm a journalist. The story is the only thing I'm after.”  
  
“Is that so?” von Hertz walked towards him, glaring acidly. Tintin had the strangest sensation they had met before. “It is my experience that a story can be a much more deadly affair than a mere trinket.”  
  
Tintin met his glare with equal force. “If the Jade Cross is a mere trinket, then why go to all the trouble of protecting it?”  
  
A look of fury crossed Von Hertz's face, and for a second Tintin thought the man might throw a punch, but a series of loud crashes broke the tension. They both spun towards the Jade Cross, ready for action, only to find Thompson and Thomson tangled up in a pair of metal cages that appeared to have been triggered when they attempted to force the metal box back together.  
  
A satisfied smile crossed von Hertz's face. “My apologies gentlemen. I do enjoy a good booby trap.”  
  
After helping the detectives out of their muddle, Tintin made his excuses and returned to his room with Snowy. He had quickly deduced that there was no point in asking any further questions around Mr Hertz.  
  
“Didn't like him much, did you, Snowy?”  
  
Snowy replied with an irritable _whuff_.  
  
Tintin frowned. “Hm. No. Neither did I.”

**oOo**

He waited in his room until five minutes to seven, but there was no sign of Gilligan Ratbagh.  
  
“I wonder where he could be?” Tintin thought aloud while he tried in vain to pat down his stubborn flick with a wet comb. He had not thought to bring a smart change of clothes with him to the Metropole, so had to suffice with a plain white collared shirt and his usual plus fours.  
  
Amara was waiting by the entrance to the piano suite when he arrived, looking quite breath-taking in an elegant champagne coloured silk dress which hugged her slight frame. Its daring open neckline exposed her fine collarbone and the smooth dip of her throat, where a small rose gold pendant dangled from her neck, engraved with the Syldavian symbol of the black pelican.  
  
For the first time in a long time Tintin actually felt butterflies in the pit of his stomach as he approached her. He quickly stamped them down and took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders.  
  
“Good evening, Madame. You look lovely tonight.”  
  
“Just lovely?” she pouted, accepting his proffered his arm. “I was hoping for ravishing at least.”  
  
Tintin felt his face flush. “Oh-er sorry. You look, erm...”  
  
Amara laughed and gently bumped his shoulder with her own. “Stop, stop, mon ami, you'll give yourself a headache if you think any harder. I'm only teasing again.”  
  
He looked at her askance, one eyebrow raised a little judgementally. “That seems to have become your favourite pastime.”  
  
She smiled wickedly at him. “Only because you make such an easy target.”  
  
As they made their way into the restaurant, a thin waiter hopped in front of them to bar their way with a raised hand. “Messier, Mademoiselle, my apologies, but I am afraid your little... _pet_ cannot enter the piano bar.”  
  
Tintin blinked. “Pet? Oh, Snowy. Yes, of course.” It was strange to hear Snowy referred to as a pet – he had only ever thought of him as a companion. He doubted the little fox terrier would be very pleased with the description either. Snowy was a canny soul in his own way and smarter than most people Tintin met. Feeling guilty, he turned to his four-legged companion and pointed to the door. “Sorry boy, you can't come in. Stay here and be good. I'm sure the nice man will bring you something to eat.”  
  
Neither Snowy nor the waiter looked particularly happy with their new orders.  
  
“Of course, Messier,” said the waiter with a bow, before muttering under his breath, “Last week I was attending the Duchess of Alba. Tonight I will attend this _charming_ canine.”  
  
 _Well isn't that something!_ Snowy thought irritably, and glared at Tintin's back as the young man left with the strange woman on his arm. Snowy decided there and then that he did not like her. He thought she smelled off somehow, too clean and flowery. And she laughed too much, and always seemed to find an excuse to touch Tintin somehow. _Probably some sort of strange human courting thing_ , Snowy mused as he tucked into the rare steak the skinny waiter with the permanent frown had brought him. _Surely Tintin isn't stupid enough to get involved in something like that?_  
  
Suddenly, something caught the corner of his sharp black eyes – across the hallway leading from the lobby, a bushy brown tail was disappearing into a group of large potted plants. Snowy lowered his ears and sniffed the air. _I know that skinny tail - that's the strange little creature from the big house we visited yesterday!_ Cocking his head in curiosity, he made a beeline for the potted plants. He buried his nose in the leafy undergrowth, sniffing through various smells meticulously until he came across something familiar – an earthy, animal scent laced with cinnamon and something chemically. He looked up just in time to see a furry brown creature with a round eyes and a long tail crouched low among the palms. Before he could react, it leapt forward to swipe his nose with a clawed paw, jumped onto his head, then scrambled down the hall. Snowy yelped and shook his head, pawing at the scratch on his sensitive nose. Then he growled. _That little-!  
  
_ Barking furiously, he sprang to his paws and scrabbled after the creature, but it was hard to gain purchase on the polished marble floor. This did not impede the strange wiry little creature, however, who bounced from guest to guest, and sprinted down the hallway. Snowy charged after it with less finesse, scooting between the legs of surprised guests, but just as he thought he might corner it at the end of the hallway, the creature made a sharp turn and jumped onto a woman's head, using it as a springboard to scramble up into a vent in the wall. Snowy did not have time to slow down and went crashing into a luggage cage.  
  
He emerged from the wreckage of suitcases to the sour faced waiter glaring down at him. As he hung his head in guilt and pretended to listen to the skinny man shouting and wagging his finger at him, he could not help but glance curiously at the vent where the creature had disappeared into.  
  
 _What was that odd little thing?_

**oOo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading so far, folks! It means the world that anyone wants to read my daft wee Tintin fic. :D


	5. Chapter 5

**oOo**

With its exotic palms, chandeliers and art nouveau furnishings, the piano bar was just as extravagant as Tintin had come to expect of the Hotel Metropole. A grand piano and swing band had been set up next to the dance floor, where couples dressed in glitzy finery lifted, spun, and Lindy Hopped along to an upbeat tempo.

Tintin supposed he should have felt a little self-conscious in his plain clothes, but he was too engaged in his conversation with Amara to care.  
  
“So you grew up in Syldavia, but were schooled in Paris?” he asked as their dinner arrived, a steaming plate of venison in a rich Port sauce.  
  
“It wasn't nearly as adventurous or racy as I had hoped,” she replied with a grin. “My mother felt I should be schooled in the beating heart of society, but my father is a little more traditional, you see.”  
  
“Is that where you met your husband? In Paris?”  
  
Amara gave a short, derisive laugh. “I'm afraid so, but not through schooling. My husband was quite a bit older than I was when we married.” She leaned towards him. “Mr Baudelaire was in his late fifties when I met him at sweet sixteen.”  
  
Tintin choked on a mouthful of food. “Sorry,” he coughed, thumping his chest to clear his throat. “I didn't mean to be rude but... _sixteen_? I could not imagine marrying at such a young age,” he said honestly. “Though I'd wager I'm not cut out for marriage at any age.”  
  
Amara raised a delicate eyebrow and tilted her head curiously at his flippant comment.

Once again Tintin wondered at his tendency to over-share in this relative stranger's company. He was not the type to discuss his personal life with people. Even Haddock, his dearest friend, knew little about his childhood. There was an unspoken rule between them – Tintin did not pry into the Captain's life and the Captain (recent conversations notwithstanding) did not pry into his. Yet here he was, dining with a woman he had only just met, and divulging some of his most private admissions.   
  
He was fervently grateful that Amara was quick to pick up on his embarrassment, rescuing him from revealing anything more by carrying on with her own tale.

“The situation was complicated - an arranged marriage organised by my father - but our partnership was a happy enough one. My husband travelled a lot,” she added with a wink. Setting her knife and fork down and pushing her meal aside, Amara propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her laced fingers. “It's a shame that you are so adverse to marriage, my friend. I hear it can be quite the adventure... if there are willing participants involved.” She drew him a long, scrutinising look, one full of humour and dimpled teasing smiles. “And I am in no doubt that your options are many.”  
  
Tintin sighed. “You're starting to sound just like the Captain.”  
  
“I'll take that as a compliment.”

"I suppose someone must," he quipped, and immediately felt bad for making a joke at his dear friend's expense. Privately, Tintin admitted he was still feeling frustrated with Haddock for being so reckless.   
  
Amara shifted in her seat, looking for the first time in their short acquaintance hesitant and shy. He could not be sure. His experience of women was largely reduced to his landlady and Mademoiselle Castafiore, and the _Milanese Nightingale_ was hardly a shrinking violet.  
  
Gathering her courage, she leaned across the table towards him, the movement causing the wide neck of her dress to dip almost scandalously low. She used the motion to slide a silk gloved hand alongside his where it rested on the table between them. Tintin stiffened, feeling his pulse quicken. 

Her voice had a slight tremor to it when she spoke next. “Tell me, _mon petite chroniquer_ , is finding a kindred spirit to share this life with such an abhorrent idea?”  
  
The heat of her hand through the silk glove sent a jolt of electricity up Tintin's arm. He swallowed thickly, momentarily lost in her hazel eyes, noting the flecks of gold around her pupils. He was not particularly drawn by the fine sweep of her neck or the hint of cleavage revealed by the dip of her dress, but their quick connection filled him with a heady mix of intrigue and trepidation similar to the thrill he got when embarking on a new story.

Tintin wasn't sure he trusted the feeling. Breaking eye contact, he pulled away and reached for his water.  
  
“My life doesn't always have room for much else other than travel and work, I'm afraid." He raised the glass to take a sip, then paused and added, because it suddenly seemed necessary, “For now at least. Perhaps one day.”  
  
Tintin met her gaze and tried in haste to project the confusing jumble of thoughts and emotions he was feeling, hoping to make her understand, because he was sure words could never do the job.  
  
A smile spread across Amara's dimpled face and she nodded in understanding. “As it should, mon ami. It seems you have discovered your great love, after all. Come, we should toast,” she proclaimed, raising her glass. “To a life full of adventure!”  
  
Feeling relief flood over him, Tintin's face broke into a wide grin and he raised his glass to hers. “May it never grow dull.”  
  
Amara finished her drink then stood abruptly, offering her hand to him. “And now that we have toasted, we must dance. Come, it is tradition in Syldavia to seal a toast with a waltz. I simply won't accept no as an answer.”  
  
Tintin looked mortified. “My dancing skills leave a lot to be desired. I'm afraid I'd only embarrass you.”  
  
“Well I should love to be embarrassed,” she quipped and pulled him to his feet.  
  
The swing band was playing a slow leaning tempo as they joined the other couples swaying softly on the dance floor. Amara slipped into his arms as though she had been there forever, one arm draped over his shoulder while the other entwined his hand in hers close to his chest. Her hazel eyed gaze was full of warmth and wit as she chatted away cheerfully.  
  
 _Crumbs_ , Tintin thought, looking skyward, wondering if she could feel the hammering of his heart against his breastbone. _She's certainly close enough.  
  
_ “Speaking of your work,” her rich, honeyed voice whispered into the shell of his ear, “have you had any luck identifying _le Kaitou's_ feather?”  
  
Tintin was glad they were back in the safe territory of work again. “No, I'm afraid not, but a friend of mine in the central library is currently investigating... its …. origin... Hold on.” He paused to give her a strange look. “I don't believe I told you about my feather. Nor how I acquired it.”  
  
“You didn't,” said Amara, looking fiendishly pleased with herself. “I drew my own conclusions. That and, as I have said before, I am an avid reader of your column in the paper. I expected _le Kaitou_ might come for you and when you turned up at dear old Gilligan's with that marvellous black eye, well! As I said, I drew my own conclusions.” The smirk on her face caused her button nose to scrunch up in a way he found nothing short of endearing.  
  
“You found my hidden riddle in the paper?” he asked, impressed.  
  
“I did. Smart work, mon ami. Smart, but risky.” She brushed a gently thumb over the faint outline of his black eye. “You could have been hurt far worse.”  
  
“I doubt that,” he replied. “There have been no instances of _le Kaitou_ injuring anyone so far.”  
  
Amara frowned. “That amounts to nothing when so little is known of his motivations.”  
  
Before he could reassure her, a familiar voice interrupted them.  
  
“What ho, look who we have here!” chirped Gideon Stark. Tintin felt his heart sink. He had quickly grown to dread the other man's mocking sing-song voice. “Forgive me, but I simply must take this opportunity. May I have this dance?”  
  
Amara's smile could have frozen the Arctic twice over. “Gideon,” she bit out through her teeth. “I'm afraid I shall have to decline on account that I'd rather dance with anyone or anything in this whole wide world.”  
  
Gideon's smile did not budge an inch. “Ah, but my dear Madame Baudelaire, I'm afraid I wasn't asking you,” he said, and before Tintin knew what was happening Gideon had slipped between them like an eel and waltzed him off to the far side of the ballroom.  
  
“What on earth are you playing at?” Tintin hissed through his teeth, feeling his cheeks and ears start to burn as he caught the baffled and laughing faces of the other guests while they spun across the floor.   
  
Gideon blinked innocently. “What? I'm letting you lead.”  
  
“You're drawing attention.”  
  
“Well I do have excellent form,” Gideon said, and twirled beneath his arm.  
  
With an exasperated sigh, Tintin pulled the other man off the dance floor by one of his shiny cream lapels.  
  
“What are you doing here, Stark?” he snapped. “Haven't you done enough already?”  
  
Gideon stared at him in genuine surprise this time. It made him wonder whether the man was an exceptionally good actor or just the most obnoxiously spoiled brat Tintin had ever met (which was saying something considering the number of spoiled crown princes he had encountered on his travels).  
  
“My dear chap, what on Earth's got you in such a tizzy? Are you angry because I interrupted your little _tête-à-tête_ with Madame Baudelaire?” Gideon snatched up two long stem champagne glasses from a passing waiter and held one out to Tintin. “Here. A peace offering. Besides, between you and me, I would be a wary of just how close you get to our beautiful Syldavian rose. I may well be doing you a favour... ”  
  
Tintin pushed the glass away, refusing to take his bait. “This has nothing to do with Amara.”  
  
“Oh?? _Amara_ , is it?” Gideon repeated teasingly, and took a sip out of each glass in turn. “Well, well. I didn't realise matters had become so serious. Do share the juicy details!”  
  
Tintin ignored him. “How could you do that to the Captain? I thought you were his friend.”  
  
Gideon looked affronted. “I didn't create the terms of the game, old boy. I merely rose to the challenge,” he retorted. “Upon my word, I did not cheat Haddock. I am a gentleman and a gentleman always plays within the rules of the game.”  
  
Tintin took a step closer, his voice dangerously low, and fixed his hard gaze on Gideon's blue eyes. “You can make all the excuses you like, Mr Stark, but you cheated one of my dearest friends out of his house and home. That is something I cannot forgive.”  
  
Gideon smiled languidly. “No force on heaven or earth could have prevented your sea Captain from casting that bet last night. I may have indulged him, but I did not cheat him. As I said, a gentleman always plays within the rules.”  
  
“Oh you played within the rules, all right. You allowed a man too blind drunk to think clearly to gamble away everything he has in this world.”  
  
Gideon drew him a long look, arching his copper red eyebrows. “Hardly everything in the world. Haddock still has you, his heir apparent.” He leaned in close, his slender nose mere inches from Tintin's face. “Or am I to steal you away, too?”  
  
Furious, Tintin forced himself to take a step back from the taller man for fear he would do something stupid, like throw a punch in a crowded ballroom. He shook his head in disgust.  
  
“You're a wretch, Mr Stark.”  
  
“You have _no_ idea.” Gideon shot him a cat-like smile and before the reporter could react, he swept up Tintin's hand to press a chaste kiss against his fingers, before striding away, whistling as he went.  
  
Amara drifted up beside him, her hazel eyed gaze harder than Tintin had seen it before. The expression seemed to change her face entirely.  
  
“I didn't realise you two had become such fast friends,” she said quietly, judgement implicit in her tone.  
  
Tintin gave a short dry laugh as he wiped his knuckles on the side of his trousers and watched Gideon charm his way into a gathering of attractive young ladies. “I don't think I've ever disliked anyone quite so much.”  
  
“Yes. Gideon does have a way of getting under your skin,” said Amara, coldly.  
  
Tintin turned to her, curiosity raising its head. “May I ask how you came to know him?”  
  
He noted the way Amara's jawline tightened and her eyes grew flinty and hard.

“Gideon is the cousin of the man I used to love,” she said stiffly. “A great man. The greatest I've ever known.” She shot him a shy half smile. “I admit, you remind me of him, mon ami. Fabian was a brilliant archaeologist. He travelled all over the world hunting for relics, unravelling riddles and chasing down clues. He died doing what he loved two years ago on a dig in the Eastern Desert.”  
  
“Fabian?” Tintin repeated, with wide eyes. “ _Fabian Stark?_ ”  
  
Amara nodded, though her expression was far away. “Hmm. You knew of him?”  
  
“I admired his work a great deal. We even corresponded a few times while I was still a Paperboy,” he told her. “His discovery and work on the ancient copper mines in Rajasthan was fascinating. I was very sorry to read about his death in the papers.” Tintin cast his eyes about for Gideon, spotting him leaving the piano bar with a young lady on each arm. “It's hard to imagine Gideon being any sort relation to Fabian.”  
  
“Unfortunately we cannot choose our family, mon ami.”  
  
Suddenly, a loud _clank_ reverberated around the ballroom. It was quickly followed by the drone and crackle of electricity powering down throughout the building. The blazing light of the chandeliers stuttered and gasped for life, before fizzling out entirely. Everything plunged into inky darkness.

A curious silence filled the room at first, as people blinked around in wonder at their new circumstances. Some laughed nervously, expecting a bit of theatre or for someone to announce a great prank had been pulled and they could all laugh and carry on their business. But when the darkness persisted and no reassurance came, a slow wave of anxiety began to roll through the crowd, swelling with each passing second. A glass smashed. Something in the sharp, chaotic sound broke the seal on the nervous crowd and panic flooded the room. An elderly woman fainted, screams rose up, and people bolted for the door.  
  
Tintin grabbed Amara by the hand and led her through the surging crowd. Unfortunately, most of the guests in the piano bar had the same exit in mine, and they were forced to let themselves be carried along by the river of people pushing and shoving through the arched doorway. Amara's hand slipped from his grasp in the tight squeeze. He turned back, calling her name and trying to pick out her shape through the frantic crowd, but it was no use. All he could do was hope to find her again in the lobby.  
  
Then a grave thought struck him: _Great snakes! This must be the work of le Kaitou. He's after the Cross!_  
  
By the time he made it back into the hotel lobby, Tintin's sharp eyes had grown accustomed to the dark enough that he was able to make out the faint outline of two identical bowler hats bobbing above the ocean of heads surrounding him.  
  
“Detectives!” Tintin shouted with a wave, pushing his way towards them.  
  
Thompson and Thomson were guarding the doors to the brass elevator, flanked by two extra officers. Catching sight of Tintin's fin-like quiff wading through the crowd towards them, they waved their umbrellas in the air.  
  
“Tintin!”  
  
“By Jove, are we glad to see you!”  
  
“To be precise, we're glad to see anything.”  
  
“Do you know what happened?” Tintin asked breathlessly, getting straight to the point. He did not want to risk losing another second. "Is it _le Kaitou_?"  
  
“I doubt it,” said Thompson, sniffily. "The power seems to be out along the whole block.”  
  
“Never fear, Tintin. We were just about to nip up and check on the Jade Cross this minute,” Thomson reassured him. “But lights or no lights, there's no possible way our little thief could make it inside. We've been standing here all evening keeping guard."

"To be precise, we've been standing here all evening doing nothing."   
  
“We must hurry,” Tintin pressed them. “I have a terrible feeling.”  
  
Thompson patted his shoulder. “Not to worry, Tintin, it's all in hand. Moreau, Biggin! Bring the candles! We're going up.”  
  
The two officers scrambled into the elevator with them, both holding a fat lit candle which they tried in vain to hold at a distance to avoid being burned by the dripping hot wax. One officer was not so lucky. Tintin kindly took the candle from him as the man shook his injured hand.  
  
The ride upstairs seemed to take forever. When the doors finally slid open, six guards blinked owlishly into the candlelight. Tintin breathed a sigh of relief at the calm mundanity of the scene.   
  
“Has there been a breach, sir?” one officer enquired.  
  
Detective Thomson snorted at the very idea. “Don't be ridiculous, Jenkins. This is a routine check. Open the case!”  
  
The six guards promptly did as told, slotting their keys into the four locks and turning them simultaneously. The box sprang open.

Everyone gasped.

There was indeed a cross sitting on the velvet cushion, but it was not the Jade Cross. The cross that met them now shone a deep, demonic red in the candlelight.   
  
“Good gracious!” Thomson gasped, clutching his hat. “Le Kaitou has gone and cursed the cross!”  
  
“Don't be ridiculous,” Thompson snapped, tapping the tip of his umbrella against the reinforced glass dome surrounding the artefact. “It's clearly a forgery. He's gone and switched it somehow. Open the dome at once!”  
  
Tintin watched with a feeling of trepidation as the officers did as instructed. Detective Thompson lifted the red cross from the cushion to inspect it closer beneath the candlelight.  
  
“But that's impossible!” he exclaimed.  
  
“I'm not so sure, Thompson,” said Thomson. “Red certainly is _le Kaitou's_ colour.”

"The Devil take him!"  
  
Tintin peered closely at the fake cross with its mocking ruby red stems, his mind racing for an explanation. "If Kaitou Red was here, he must have left his calling card somewhere." He lifted the candle aloft, scanning the room. “Aha! There!” he cried, spotting the feather at the base of the plinth, and knelt to pick it up. It was identical to the feather that had been left for him after the temporary theft of Haddock's pocket watch. “This is certainly the work of Kaitou Red,” he muttered.  
  
“How did you nincompoops let him get in?!” Thompson bellowed, apoplectic with rage as he clonked one of the guards on the head with his umbrella. “Not only did he scarper with the Jade Cross, he's switched it with a fake! We'll be the laughing stock of Europe!”  
  
“We're sorry, Sir, there was a bit of a panic when the lights went out,” said Jenkins, rubbing the tender lump now forming on his skull. “We thought we heard a noise coming from the vents after it went dark.”  
  
Tintin raised the candlelight to each wall in turn. There were two vents, each with an old metal grate covering, but they were far too small for a grown man to fit through. Tintin doubted a small child could have squeezed through, never mind an adult thief with only seconds to spare.  
  
“Don't be ridiculous, man!” Thompson continued to shout at the poor guard. “Unless Kaitou Red is a mouse, there's no way he's squeezing through any vents.”  
  
“Tintin, what do you think, m'boy?” Thomson asked him.  
  
Tintin was still examining the feather, deep in thought. “I'm not sure. Something doesn't feel right to me. May I see the cross again?”  
  
Thomson started to hand it over to him when Tintin stopped suddenly, tilting his head in the direction of the elevator.  
  
“Hold on... What's that sound?”  
  
“I don't hear anything,” said Thompson.  
  
“Shh. Listen.”  
  
The detectives, two officers and six guards all stood perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe as they strained to hear whatever it was Tintin had picked up. It was distant at first, but as they listened the sound grew louder; a sort of strange high pitched keening.  
  
“Good heavens,” Thomson stammered. “You don't think it's a... a...”  
  
“Don't be preposterous, man!” Thompson scoffed. “There's no such thing.” But he drew a little closer to his partner all the same.  
  
Tintin tilted his head further to the side, straining to hear more clearly. Each long drawn out note began as a low, mournful wail, before climbing higher and higher until the pitched howl sent goosebumps prickling up his neck. Something about it was oddly familiar.

Then it clicked. “That's Snowy!”  
  
“Good gracious! That canine has quite a set of lungs on him.”  
  
“The elevator shaft has warped and amplified the sound,” Tintin explained. “I'd guess he's about three floors down on the sixth or seventh floor,” said Tintin, worry gnawing at him over the well being of his beloved dog. “What's got him so upset, I wonder?”  
  
“Maybe he's afraid of the dark?” Thomson offered, trembling behind Thompson.

“I had better get down there,” Tintin said, and began striding towards the elevator when a second scream that was definitely _not_ Snowy split the night.

Everyone jumped, glancing nervously around with startled wide eyes.

Thomson dabbed at his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. "My word. Your little dog makes the queerest sounds." 

Tintin's face was pale. "That wasn't Snowy."

Sure enough, they heard new screams and cries of fright join the little dog's howls as more guests stumbled on whatever horror moved them to shout and call out for the police. Something was desperately wrong.  
  
Tintin had been correct in his estimation. When the elevator doors opened on the seventh floor, the shrill shriek of a policeman's whistle filled the halls, demanding order from the panicked guests. The two officers accompanying them nervously drew their weapons as Tintin and the detectives ran towards the commotion.  
  
In the murky darkness, they could just make out a cluster of people standing outside an open guest room. Some of the guests were openly weeping, while others argued frantically with the policeman, who swept his torch this way and that, looking quite out of his depth.  
  
Finally, Tintin spotted Snowy sitting close to the threshold of a guest room, whining piteously. He pushed his way through the crowd towards the little fox terrier and scooped him up, earning himself a few happy licks to the face.  
  
“Snowy, what on earth's the matter?" He wiped the dog's grubby snout with the edge of his sleeve. "What have you got all over yourself?” Then his stomach lurched as he recognised the tangy, iron scent of the sticky substance.  
  
One of the accompanying officers approached him, raising his candle high. The flickering glow confirmed Tintin's grim suspicions: the room was his own and something terrible had happened there. He put Snowy down and stepped over the threshold to stand by the policeman with the whistle. Soft candlelight reflected off a pool of dark viscous liquid seeping from a bulky mass on the floor. It lay perfectly still.  
  
“On no,” Tintin breathed. “ _Gilligan_.”  
  
He was about to kneel down to check his friend's vitals, but he knew by the deep gash in Gilligan's neck that the man was quite dead.  
  
A large hairy hand clapped down on his shoulder and dragged him away from the body.  
  
“This is a crime scene, lad.”  
  
“It's my room, officer,” Tintin explained. “And I know the identity of this man.”  
  
“Is that so,” the officer said in a tone laden with suspicion. “All the more reason you stay away from the crime scene, then.” He pushed him back none too gently, glaring under a pair of enormous bushy eyebrows.  
  
“Steady on, Marcus,” said detective Thompson, arriving at the scene flushed and sweaty from getting lost on the way from the elevator. “Tintin's no criminal.”  
  
“Precisely! Besides, he's been with us in the secure room,” argued Thomson.  
  
Tintin paid little attention to their argument. He knelt by the entrance to his room where the body lay slumped close to the threshold. Somehow Gilligan had got into his room. He felt for the room key in his pocket, only to find it missing. _But how...?_ He tried to piece the events of the evening together in his head. Gilligan had stolen his key at some point and gained entry to Tintin's room. Perhaps the killer had arrived, expecting to find Tintin, only poor Gilligan had answered his knock...

Tintin turned away from the gruesome sight. Had _he_ been the intended victim instead of Gilligan? If that was the case, the murderer had to be... Tintin leapt to his feet.   
  
“Great snakes, how could I be so stupid?!” he shouted, giving the detectives such a fright that they dropped their canes. “I know where the Jade Cross is! Detectives, where is the red fake?”  
  
“The fake?” Thompson blinked. “Ah yes. Why I gave it to Thomson here.”  
  
“Indeed,” nodded Thomson. “And I passed it along to Moreau.”  
  
They both turned expectantly to the two officers accompanying them, but only Biggins remained, who looked around and shrugged. "He just left."  
  
“That wasn't Officer Moreau!” Tintin shouted, taking off at a sprint.  
  
“Good heavens, Tintin! What's going on?” he heard the detectives call after him, but he did not dare waste another moment; only paused to shout over his shoulder: “That was Kaitou Red!”  
  
When he reached the elevator, the sound of a door clicking shut to his right caught his attention. _The stairwell!  
  
_ He chased after the burglar into the stairwell, following the sound of running footsteps as they climbed higher and higher. Tintin tore after him, taking two steps at once until he burst out of the exit onto the rooftop. He looked around, scanning the flat surface of the hotel's roof, slick with drizzling rain. There was no sign of the thief. The rooftop appeared to be empty.   
  
Then a voice above him sneered, “Well, aren't you the little boy scout?”  
  
Tintin spun around to find _le Kaitou_ leaning against the support scaffolding of the Metropole's enormous sign. The thief was smartly dressed in a crisp white suit with red pinstripes. A red scarf and wide-brimmed fedora, a familiar feather tucked into its sash, served to conceal _le Kaitou's_ face. The butt of a service pistol poked out from their jacket pocket, no doubt pilfered from the real Officer Moreau.  
  
“We weren't properly introduced the other night,” Kaitou Red continued in a low voice, twirling the Jade Cross between their fingers so that it spun like a Catherine wheel. “Let me introduce myself,” they began importantly, before leaping nimbly off the scaffolding and landing with a deep bow. “I am Kaitou Red, aka _le Kaitou_ , aka the world's Greatest Thief! And who might you be?”  
  
“Tintin,” Tintin replied stonily, stalking closer.  
  
“Tintin...?”  
  
He narrowed his eyes, subtly sliding his feet apart into a ready fighting stance. “Just Tintin."  
  
“Well, Mr Just Tintin, it looks like you've caught me,” _le Kaitou_ laughed. “Of course, as we all know, looks can be deceiving.”  
  
Without further preamble, Tintin lunged for the Jade Cross before the thief could draw their gun. At the same time, Kaitou Red sprang to meet him, but before they collided, the thief darted under Tintin's arm and went sprinting off along the roof ledge. Tintin leapt after them, slipping and sliding along the narrow ledge encircling the hotel's large atrium, where he could just make out the crowd of panicked guests still fumbling about in the dark below.  
  
Launching himself along the wet stone, he struck out at the thief's ankle, causing the other to fall and the gun in their hand to go skittering along the roof, rolling dangerously close to the sheer drop below. Tintin wasted no time, getting to his feet and throwing himself on the thief. But Kaitou Red was ready for him, kicking out and catching Tintin's side, winding him slightly, but slowing him down enough for the thief to regain their footing and make a dash for the gun. Recovering quickly, Tintin leapt forward to catch _le Kaitou's_ wrist, twisting their arm behind their back. The thief responded by knocking his head into Tintin's jaw. He could feel the force of the blow split his lip, but he didn't relinquish his grip. He twisted one leg behind the thief's left ankle and, using his weight to pin them against the slanting glass of the atrium, finally managed to secure the thief's arms safely above his head.  
  
"Why did you kill Gilligan?” Tintin demanded. “Were you after me? Are you working alone? Answer me!"  
  
He bristled as the thief's eyes glittered beneath the brim of their hat. "So many questions, I don't know which one to answer first. Okay, okay. One, no, two, no, and three... yes, actually. For some reason nobody likes to work with me. Perhaps it's because I keep robbing them?” The thief attempted a careless shrug, but found any movement was quite difficult in their current predicament. “So you see, I'm perfectly innocent.” Kaitou Red gave the Boy Scout's salute. “Scout's honour.”  
  
Despite the anger and adrenaline coursing through his body, Tintin was completely blind-sided, for the thief he had apprehended no longer spoke in the same low voice, but a watered down Irish accent, high in pitch, clearly softened by years of travel and masquerade, and very distinctly female.  
  
“You're a... Who _are_ you?”  
  
Kaitou Red blinked. “Is there something about the concept of a disguise you don't understand?”  
  
Flushing from head to toe, Tintin released his grip on her wrists as if he'd been burned and took a careful step back. “I'm sorry... I never would have fought you if I had known you were a lady.”  
  
“Oh, Boy Scout.” Kaitou Red dusted and straightened her suit, before shooting him a toothy grin that gleamed wickedly in the dark. “I'm no lady.”  
  
He did not have to duck the punch thrown his way. Stumbling backwards, Tintin felt his stomach drop as his foot met with empty air beyond the rooftop. His arms windmilled as he tried to regain his balance, but he knew it was too late - he was going to fall. Then a hand gripped the front of his shirt and pulled him back onto the safety of the flat rooftop, but not before kicking his ankle out beneath him.

Tintin landed hard and rolled into an unsteady crouch. Suddenly, Snowy's barking erupted from the stairwell behind him. The little dog came charging through the roof door, followed closely by Thompson and Thomson, and a string of pistol waving officers.

But it was too late - Kaitou Red had disappeared without a trace, taking the Jade Cross with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally introduced Kaitou Red! It only took five chapters. XD Ooh, and points to anyone who knows where I pinched Gideon and Fabian from! I hope this chapter turned out okay, I'm not very good at writing romance so I found the scene with Amara and Tintin pretty hard to construct. Hope it worked!


	6. Chapter 6

**oOo**

It was nearing dawn by the time the power outage was fixed. Police were still attempting to organise the hotel guests and take statements, a task that had proven near impossible in the dark with only candlelight to work by. More than once, Tintin found himself rushing to put out a fire after the Thom(p)sons got too close to a lit candle and set their pocket books alight.  
  
By morning, he was exhausted and his temper was stretched thin. He had spent the remainder of the night on a fruitless search for Amara. She was nowhere to be found among the remaining guests in the lobby, but the police had forbidden any one to leave the premises while they collected statements, so he supposed she had to be somewhere in the building. At first Tintin surmised that she must have returned to her room, but when he requested the concierge ring up to check on her, he was alarmed to find no one under the name of Amara Baudelaire had checked into the Metropole.  
  
He tried to convince himself that this wasn't unusual; after all, plenty of people visited the Metropole simply to dine and dance for an evening. Nevertheless, his investigative instinct was ringing alarm bells.  
  
On top of the anxious knot forming in his stomach over his friend's well-being, without Amara to vouch for him, he had no alibi for the period of time during which Gilligan's murder was estimated to have taken place. And considering poor Gilligan's body had been discovered in his room, that was proving to be an issue with the police...  
  
“What? But this is absurd!” he protested, as one officer roughly turned him about to place a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. “You can't honestly think I'm a suspect in all this?”  
  
“Sorry Tintin, but you know protocol,” said Thomson, looking a little shamefaced. “Got to do things by the book.”  
  
“Precisely,” said Thompson. “The book is what gets things done.”  
  
“I understand that, gentlemen, but I don't know what more I can tell you,” Tintin replied patiently, wincing at the cold metal of the handcuffs against his wrists. He was still stiff and bruised from his scuffle with Kaitou Red last night, and having his arms handcuffed behind his back was not helping matters. “I don't know why Gilligan wanted to meet me here last night. All I know is that he was panicked and scared for his life. He believed I could help somehow." He sighed and sat down heavily on a chair in the lobby. “Believe me, I wish I knew more. He may not have been the most honest sort, but Gilligan was a decent man. And a good friend.”  
  
Tintin had decided from the start to share everything he knew about the case so far with the detectives – of Gilligan Ratbagh's questionable acquisition of the vast English estate, the last minute invitation Tintin had received to Basil Park, and lastly, Gilligan's own admission that his life was in danger. Guilt gnawed at his heart. Tintin could not help but feel responsible for Gilligan's death. Perhaps if he had insisted that his nervous old friend return to Marlinspike Hall with them, he might still be alive? But he knew that way of thinking would only lead him astray down a dark and hopeless trail. Indulging in 'what ifs' would not help him figure out this mess.  
  
Detective Thompson sighed and tapped his cane impatiently on the floor. “Look here, Tintin, we don't believe you're the man who done it, but just look at the facts: the body was found in a room only you had the key to. The concierge keeps a spare, but it has never left his pocket.”  
  
Tintin frowned, his thoughts whirling around his methodical mind. “Gilligan must have pick-pocketed the key while I was in the piano bar. That seems the most likeliest event.”  
  
“Hmmm,” Thompson hummed, as if to emphasize how convenient an excuse this was. “And no one else can vouch for your movements last night before the power cut?”  
  
“Well no, but-”  
  
“I can, gentlemen!” sang a chirpy voice. Tintin felt the weight of an arm around his neck and turned to find Gideon grinning broadly at the two detectives. “He was with me all evening, right up to the blackout.”  
  
Tintin looked up at Gideon's happily flushed face and fought the urge to roll his eyes at the smudge of lipstick on his collar. He frowned, mulling over whether he should correct Gideon's statement. It was true that Gideon had seen him last night, but they had parted at least ten minutes before the black out. Still, that was no time for Tintin to theoretically run back to his room, kill poor Gilligan, and nip back downstairs again. Grudgingly, he kept his mouth shut. With Gideon's alibi, the matter of his wrongful arrest was resolved and his handcuffs removed, while the Thom(p)sons bowed and apologised profusely.  
  
“Sorry about that, Tintin.”  
  
“No hard feelings, eh?”  
  
“Of course not, gentlemen.” Tintin smiled at them and, with a short nod of his head, was about to turn to leave when Thompson cleared his throat.  
  
“Just one more thing, Tintin. How the devil did you know the fake cross was the real one after all?" the detective asked. "We all saw it glowing red as the fires of hell!”  
  
Gideon, who had remained lurking at the edge of the group, looked thrilled. “Yes, I'd rather fancy hearing how you worked it out too, old sport. Let's hear that famous little investigative mind at work!”  
  
Tintin had to smile, despite it all. “All right then. It was a devilishly simple trick, one which hinged on our expectations,” he began, cryptically. “And I dare say we all expected the worst after the grand spectacle of the power cut.”  
  
“Blast it all, but there's no way all of us simply _imagined_ the red cross!” Thomson protested.  
  
“And we didn't,” Tintin conceded, and began to pace the floor with his hands folded behind his back. “But let us consider the facts. The pillar containing the Jade Cross could only be opened if four keys were turned inside the four locks simultaneously, yes? No matter how nimble and quick our thief is, there is no other way to open the box, let alone access a windowless room with only one way in. Which left le Kaitou one option.”  
  
“We had to open the box for them,” Thomson muttered, gruffly. “The bleedin' nerve.”  
  
“And the red cross?” Gideon asked, his foxy face bright with curiosity.  
  
Tintin continued. “When I first saw the Jade Cross I was taken by its beauty, but it was not until later that it struck me as odd. The cross was discovered recently in a crypt in Florence, clasped between the hands of a headless corpse of a Knight Templar, clad in green armour. Archaeologists naturally drew similarities between their Knight to that of the headless Green Knight of Arthurian legend, and so named their discovery, _La Cappella del Cavaliere Giada_ \- The Chapel of the Jade Knight.”  
  
“But what does this have to do with our colour changing cross!?” Thompson spluttered.  
  
“What I'm trying to explain, gentlemen, is that the Jade Cross was not carved from jade as its name implies. It was carved from _alexandrite_.” Tintin stopped pacing and stood before his small audience, smiling, he supposed, a little smugly. “Beneath natural and fluorescent light, alexandrite will shine a deep green,” he explained patiently, then raised a finger. “ _But_ under incandescent light, like, say that of a candle, alexandrite will glow...”  
  
“ _Red_ ,” Gideon finished for him in whisper, eyes bright with wonder. “That's why the thief shut off the lights - so you would see the cross glow red under candlelight. By gum. What a clever bit of trickery!”  
  
“So we had the Jade Cross all along?” Thomson said miserably. “And we gave it away to the thief disguised as Officer Moreau _willingly_?”  
  
Before the detectives could commiserate any more, the rattle of a trolley caught their attention. Gilligan's body was wheeled out of the hotel lobby on a gurney. A white sheet covered the body, but the memory of the large puncture wound in Gilligan's neck was still fresh in Tintin's mind.

Snowy whined piteously at his side. He knelt to pat the little dog and wondered absently how much of the attack his four-legged companion had witnessed.  
  
“Ah, we should speak to the coroner before he leaves,” said Thompson. “Thank you for your help, Tintin. You've been very cooperative.”  
  
“To be precise, most cooperative," said Thomson. "Do pop by the station later. We'll have to take a full description down of this lady thief you tangled with."

In a synchronised movement, the two detectives tipped the the brims of their bowler hats, before marching to the ambulance parked outside the hotel. Tintin winced watched as he watched them trip and stumble inside the vehicle. Shortly after, lights flashed and the ambulance took off down the road.  
  
Gideon sighed, rocking on his heels. "Poor old Ratbag,"  
  
"Rat _bagh_ ," Tintin corrected quietly. "The G is silent."  
  
"He certainly is that."  
  
Tintin glared. "Do you really have to be so crass? A man has died here."  
  
Gideon raised an eyebrow at him. "Yes, in your room no less. Highly suspicious. Good thing you have an alibi," he said pointedly.  
  
Tintin turned to face him fully. "And what were you doing at the time of his murder, Mr Stark?"  
  
"Me? Oh I was getting to know one of the Boyle twins very well, if you catch my drift," he said with waggling eyebrows, and turned to wave at the young lady in question. The girl giggled and blushed prettily, before being tugged away by her scowling chaperone. Tintin rolled his eyes with a huff and checked the time on his wristwatch.  
  
“I have to go. I have urgent business to attend to.” He gave Gideon a curt nod and shook his hand. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr Stark. Good day to you.”  
  
Whistling for Snowy to follow, Tintin strode out of the hotel, feeling very glad to leave the Metropole behind. Slipping his hands into his pockets, he breathed in the cool morning air and started for the central library.  
  
"This is bad, Snowy. I have a horrible feeling about all this. Clearly, Gilligan got himself into hot water with someone. But who?" he mused out loud. "And where is the murder weapon? Judging by the bruising on his neck, the killer did not inflict the wound with something sharp, like a knife or letter opener. The weapon was narrow, but blunt, tapered like a stake."  
  
“Perhaps Gilligan was a vampire all along?”  
  
Tintin turned sharply. Gideon, who had been keeping pace with him along the street, gave a friendly wave.  
  
He glowered. “Would you please stop following me?”  
  
Gideon ignored him and tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Do you really think this burglar woman you fought with was responsible for Gilligan's murder? Doesn't seem very ladylike.”  
  
“Anyone can be capable of murder, Mr Stark. A ruthless disregard for life is not solely the property of men,” he replied shortly.  
  
“How very progressive of you,” Gideon replied. “But why would our burglar change tactics so suddenly? They've never hurt anyone before. Why now?? And _Gilligan_ of all people.”  
  
Tintin sighed. It was clear Gideon was not going anywhere until he gave him something. “Gilligan didn't always play by the book. When I first met him, he was acting as an informant for an Italian smuggling enterprise. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd gotten himself mixed up with le Kaitou during another one of his little 'operations'. I had wondered how on earth he managed to afford Basil Park...”  
  
“You think they were working together to steal the Jade Cross?” Gideon asked, surprised.  
  
Tintin stopped at the edge of the pavement and sighed. Across the road, the pale stone of the central library was flushed with rosy morning light. All he wanted to do was talk to Kitty, go home, and catch a quick nap. He was sore and exhausted, and the last thing he wanted to do was spend precious investigation time humouring a bored rich man.  
  
He turned to look Gideon in the eye. “Mr Stark, I don't mean to be rude, but I have an investigation to carry out and should very much like to be on my way,” he said curtly, and was about to step off the kerb when Gideon declared:  
  
“Excellent, I'll come with you!”  
  
Tintin blinked. “What? _Why_?”  
  
“To catch our Kaitou, of course!” the man said with a conspiratorial wink. “And the murderer, whether the two are the same or not.”  
  
“Thank you, but I prefer working alone if its all the same to you.”  
  
“But we've just experienced a murder together," Gideon protested. “Surely such an occurrence cements a bond befitting partners in sleuthing?”  
  
“The only thing we share in common, Mr Stark, is a natural animosity,” Tintin snapped, and Snowy gave a snarl and bark of agreement at his feet, darting forward as if to bite Gideon's ankles. The man leapt back to avoid the dog's warning nip. Tintin took the opportunity to leave, but before he could step onto the road, Gideon's hand landed on his shoulder in a surprisingly fierce grip. When he turned, he was surprised to see the other man's face was stony and devoid of the typical fox-like glint in his eye.  
  
“Gilligan was my friend, too,” he said. “I have every intention of catching his killer and bringing them to justice.”  
  
Tintin stared at him for a long minute, trying to get a grasp on this strange man's character. Had he truly been Gilligan's friend? Or was he one of the guests Gilligan had been so afraid of that night, in the grounds of Basil Park. One thing was certain, Tintin did not trust Gideon as far as he could throw him. He glanced at Snowy. The little dog was still emitting a low warning growl at the man, his ears flat against his head.

 _Perhaps it would be wise to keep him close,_ Tintin thought, with a beleaguered sigh. _At least that way I can keep an eye on him.  
  
_ “Fine,” he said, taking Gideon's hand off his shoulder. “You can assist me. But don't get in my way.”  
  
Gideon snapped his fingers. “Excellent, you shan't regret it Baby-face!”  
  
“I already do,” Tintin muttered, as the man casually flung an arm over his shoulders.  
  
“Oh, don't be so sour. What could be better than two friends hunting down clues and seeking retribution, eh?"  
  
“I couldn't imagine anything worse,” said Tintin, and then the street exploded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fun never ends. What's Tintin's near death count so far? Four? Five?
> 
> Also, you can find fanart of Gideon on my Tintin centric tumblr page, kaitou-red


End file.
